


A History of Love

by lyryk (s_k)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-04-05 16:07:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4186203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s_k/pseuds/lyryk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sam is sixteen, he’s gotten pretty good at hiding what he’s been feeling for his brother for the last couple of years. But the most dangerous thing is not Dean finding out how Sam feels—it’s what happens when their father finds out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A History of Love

**Author's Note:**

> Contains: Underage sexual activity (Sam is 16)—non-graphic/non-penetrative sex. Descriptions of anxiety/depression. Possible D/s elements (mostly praise kink, and very mild/not really explored in the context of sex).
> 
> A/N: My thanks to: wendy and everyone else at spn_j2_bigbang; the wonderful marciaelena for feedback on the fic; marietwist for choosing to illustrate my fic and doing such incredible artwork; and the always lovely brothersoulmate for everything. [Check out the art post here!](http://marietwist.livejournal.com/466.html)

Sam’s phone rings when he’s walking back home from school.

These days, Sam doesn’t dread anything quite as much as his phone ringing when Dad and Dean are out on a hunt. Seeing Dean’s number flashing on the screen isn’t really comforting, because it could be Dad using Dean’s phone. It could be Dad using the phone to tell Sam that something horrible’s happened to his brother.

“Dean?” Sam always answers with Dean's name, the word itself soothing him, even if the news is going to be less than good.

“Hey, Sammy.” Dean sounds cheerful, and Sam finds himself relaxing a little.

“It’s Sam,” he corrects automatically, but he’s smiling. He probably looks ridiculous, standing there on the sidewalk and smiling into his phone, but he stopped caring about stuff like that years ago.

“Yeah, whatever,” Dean says, and Sam can almost hear him rolling his eyes. “You home yet?”

‘Home’ these days is a cheap rental with exactly two rooms and a kitchen that barely has space for both of them to stand side by side without knocking elbows with each other, but Sam likes the fact that it isn’t a motel room. They’ve been there for the last few months, ever since Sam transferred schools in the middle of the school year because Dad wanted to set up base here.

“Reaching in five. How was the hunt?”

“Same old. Be back by dinner. I’ll get some food on the way. Any requests?”

Sam shrugs, even though Dean can’t see him. “Whatever you want. As long as it’s not too greasy.”

“Gotcha. See ya soon, Sammy.” He hangs up before Sam can correct him again. Sam puts the phone back in his pocket, too relieved to be annoyed.

 

\--

 

Sam is sixteen, and he’s realized two things in the last couple of years.

The first is that he’s doomed to live a life that he won’t choose for himself. Where other kids at school worry about term papers and whom to go to the prom with, Sam worries about whether his father and brother will make it back from every hunt.

‘Worry’ is too mild a word for it. It’s a constant, crippling anxiety that makes him chew his nails down until there’s only skin left to bite. Most of it is focused on Dean rather than Dad, since their father isn’t a permanent fixture in his life the way Dean is. For sixteen years, Dean’s been the pseudo-parent in Sam’s life, almost always the one to give him lunch money and buy him his school things and forge Dad’s signature where it’s needed. The one who walked Sam to school before he could start driving. The one Sam cried for when left with strangers on his first day of kindergarten. The one who keeps Sam company when no one else is around, the one who’s there in unfamiliar places with unfamiliar people every time Dad moves them to a new town and drops them off at a rental house or motel before tearing off after the newest lead.

Sometimes, the anxiety gets so bad that it’s a physical sensation in Sam’s body: the constant need to throw up, the tightness in his chest and stomach, as though rubber bands are being stretched inside him. It doesn’t ease up until he hears the sound of the Impala again.

There was that one time, when Sam was twelve, when the rumble of the car’s engine had lied. He’d run out of the motel room, ignoring Dad’s orders to always stay within the salt lines when he was alone at night, and found Dad alone in the Impala. Dean was lost, Dad said. He’d lost Dean on the hunt.

The concept of Dean being lost to them was so enormous that it took Sam days to understand that Dean wasn’t coming back anytime soon.

 

\--

 

When they got Dean back, Sam’s paranoia increased a hundredfold every time his family left on a hunt. 

He was fourteen when he first felt the second thing that was to become a hallmark of his existence in the next two years. 

It was almost like déjà vu, at first. He’d heard the sound of the Impala’s engine, only to run out and find just one person in the car. This time, though, it was Dean. He was already out of the car by the time Sam reached the door, his fingers wrapped around the doorframe as his head jerked up at the sound of Sam’s running feet.

At first, Sam’s instinct was to throw himself at Dean, as he’d done during the times he was younger when he’d been especially worried at Dad and Dean’s long absences. That night, they’d been over half a day late. No calls, not even a hurried voicemail. Sam caught himself before he made it all the way to his brother, though. He wasn’t as little as he used to be, although the top of his head still didn’t quite reach Dean’s shoulder when they stood side by side. 

“Hey, Sammy.” Dean said it like he’d been on a grocery run. 

Then he took a step away from the car and crumpled at Sam’s feet, his jacket falling open to reveal a dark stain on his left side.

For a few minutes, it had been Sam’s worst nightmare come true. He’d tried dragging Dean into the motel room, but his brother was six feet tall and nearly a full-grown adult and Sam, small and skinny, could barely get Dean’s head and shoulders off the ground. Dean was absolutely still, not even a groan or a noisy breath to indicate that there was still life in him. 

Sam was almost sobbing as he dialed his father’s number. Almost, because the luxury of tears wasn’t for Winchesters, and especially not at a time when action rather than emotion was needed. The call had gone straight to voicemail and Sam had known for the first time in his life what actual heartbreak felt like. Dean was going to die, maybe he was already dead, here in the parking lot of a motel in the middle of the night, a motel that Sam couldn’t even remember the name of. Dean was dead, here on the cold concrete of the parking lot with his head cradled in Sam’s lap, and he hadn't even been able to shut the door of the Impala behind him.

Dean opened his eyes just as Sam was shoving the phone blindly back into his pocket, the whole world wet with his tears. “Hey,” he said again, voice like a flutter of butterfly wings, reaching up for Sam. His hand went behind Sam’s neck, drew his head down until Sam’s ear was close enough to Dean’s mouth for him to hear what Dean was saying. “Sorry, kiddo. Sorry. I’m okay. So sorry, Sammy.”

Sam got to his feet and Dean followed, holding on to the car for support to pull himself to his feet, resting his elbows on the hood for a moment, looking as though he was going to collapse again. “Sorry,” he said again. “Damn venom keeps making me black out.” He sounded a lot like Dad, and Sam could hear it over the angry, anxious thrum of his own heartbeat. He sounded like he could go through anything and get back on his feet, like having the poison of a malevolent supernatural creature in his blood was a minor annoyance. He kept apologizing all the way inside, as though saying he was sorry was an intrinsic part of his survival mechanism at the moment, and Sam was annoyed both at him and for him.

They managed to get inside the house without Dean passing out again, although he leaned heavily on Sam the whole way, almost doubled over, his arm a dead weight around Sam’s shoulders and his body smelling of his warm blood and something else, something black, that had Sam wanting to retch. 

Inside, Dean slid off Sam on to the floor, gesturing to his duffel. “Left pocket. Syringe.”

Sam dug the item out of Dean’s back and flew back to him. “What should I do now? Dean? Dean!” He had to shake his brother’s shoulders before Dean opened his eyes again. “Dean, please. Please, I don’t... please stay awake.”

Dean’s eyes slid shut again, but he patted his thigh, fingers fluttering, and Sam jammed the needle into Dean’s flesh and pressed the plunger.

Then he sat there beside Dean, his hand pushed under Dean’s limp one, their fingers curled together, until Dean squeezed back a few minutes later.

Sam’s world titled slowly back into position as Dean came awake, sitting on the floor and swallowing a few gulps of whiskey. When he was able to talk, Dean joked that the snake that had bitten him was like the basilisk from _Harry Potter_ , except that this one had two heads and apparently preferred to eat humans rather than anything else. Neither Dad nor Dean had noticed that Dean had been bitten too until Dean had realized it on the way back alone, Dad having headed off following another lead. 

It took a few more minutes before Dean declared himself fit enough for a cleanup. Too exhausted for a shower, he’d stripped off his ruined jacket and shirts and wiped himself down with a washcloth, dunking his head under the faucet at the sink to clean his hair.

The bite itself was a small set of holes in Dean’s forearm, most of the blood the result of a gash in his side where Dean had hurt himself on a sharp protruding rock while diving to the ground. “Doesn’t need stitches,” he said, examining himself in the bathroom mirror. Sam wasn’t so sure, but Dean would only allow him to dress and bandage the wound, sitting at the edge of his bed and on the verge of collapsing into exhausted sleep. 

“Take such good care of me,” he said, his voice a little slurred. His hand came up to cup the side of Sam’s face. There was a little fresh blood on the underside of his thumb, and when Dean thumbed away tears that Sam hadn't realized were still trickling from his eyes, the blood smeared under Sam’s eye like war paint. 

“Such a good boy for me,” Dean said, unable to stay upright anymore, almost falling into Sam, their foreheads pushed together. His hand dropped to his side and Sam helped him lie back and covered him up with a blanket, Dean’s words still running through him like a current.

 _Such a good boy for me._

Under the bone-deep fear of almost having lost his brother, deeper even than the ever-present terror that he would lose Dean the next time, a little spark of something had been ignited by Dean’s words, something that would take Sam time to even start to acknowledge.

The second thing he realized about himself, allowing it to slowly take shape over the course of the next two years, was that praise from Dean elicited very different reactions from him now than they had when Sam was younger.

 

\--

 

At sixteen, Sam’s still shorter than Dean. It’s annoying now, yet another reason to take a dig at his brother and piss him off. 

The Impala pretty much belongs to Dean now. Dad hadn't officially given it to Dean; he’d just come back in a truck one day and left the car with the boys when he drove out of town.

Sometimes Sam has imaginary conversations in his head with Dean, to make up for the ones they can never seem to have anymore. The Dean-in-his-head knows exactly how Sam feels about him, and it’s much easier to talk to him than to his real brother.

The real Dean, the one outside Sam's head who’s larger than life and fills up all of Sam's vision when he's around, is so bright that it sometimes hurts to look at him. He’s still Sam's brother, still the one Sam loves more than anyone else, still annoying and beautiful, and Sam doesn’t know when he started using that word in his head to describe his brother. 

Sam lets the small things hurt so he doesn’t have to think about the big ones. He's extra-vicious when they train, kicking at Dean where it hurts, and Dean almost always gives him this half-surprised, half-proud look when Sam gets in a good punch or an effective headlock. 

Everything Sam's got, he's got from Dean: the ability to fight, to hunt, to be protective of his brother, to hurt his brother like no one else can.

He loves Dean. He loves Dean, but the very thing that's kept them together is now driving them apart, and Sam's the only one who knows why.

 

\--

 

The truth is, he touches the things they hunt more than he touches anyone else these days. He knows Dean doesn’t want to take him along on hunts, would rather leave him safe in motel rooms—as though anywhere were safe—and go alone. As though Sam is dead weight bound to his ankle and dragging him down. This knowledge gets into Sam's head and hurts constantly, a never-ending rhythm of _he’d be so much better off without you, his pain-in-the-ass little brother._

 

\--

 

It’s easily their worst fight in at least six months. 

On the outside, nothing’s really changed. They’re in their shabby rental as usual, the exception being that Dad isn’t around this time. Dad’s absences are becoming more routine anyway, the rule now rather than the exception.

It should’ve been a night for celebration. They’ve just successfully completed a hunt, not less than an hour ago. Sam is still flushed with adrenaline from the fight, his own blood still warm on his skin. (A scratch on the arm from a wayward claw, nothing serious.) But then Dean says something on the way back home about Sam's battle technique and Sam snaps, lashing out at Dean with words that are meant to hurt. Later, he can’t really recall what he’d said, but he can remember very clearly the sharp pain on Dean's face, the way he retreats into himself instead of lashing right back at Sam.

It gets so bad that they don’t speak at all for the next couple of days. Dean works his job at the town mechanic’s and comes home late, smelling of engine oil and sometimes whiskey. He never acts drunk, but he’s quieter than usual on the days that Sam can make out that he’s been to a bar. Sam doesn’t get close enough to him to check if he smells of sex. If he didn’t, it would make Sam feel a ridiculous amount of relief that he has no right to feel. If he did, it would break Sam’s heart in a way that it has no right to break. Sam would rather not know.

One night, Sam’s working on a term paper on _Great Expectations_ —they haven’t spoken much to each other for days now, except for functional things that have to be said—when it becomes obvious that Dean is going to go out on a hunt. He’s got his back to Sam and he’s checking his weapons and stuffing holy oil and other essentials into the side pockets of his bag.

“Be back when I’m done,” he says, hoisting his bag over his shoulder and turning to the door, still not looking at Sam. “Not sure exactly what this thing is. Could take a while.”

"Wait," Sam says, the fear that had welled up in him at the sight of Dean getting his bag ready swelling up into full-blown panic. "Dean, wait. Please."

Dean turns around, half-impatient, half-concerned. "What?"

"I. I'm scared, Dean."

Dean's expression softens a bit. "Stay inside the salt lines. You'll be fine, Sammy."

"No, Dean. I'm scared you won't. Won't come back."

Dean looks confused for a second, as though he can't fathom why Sam would be scared for him. "I'm good, Sam. I've done this a hundred times."

The spreading ache inside Sam only worsens. "You said it yourself. You’re not sure what this thing is. And every time. Dean, every time you go out to hunt something, I. It gets worse. I. I think I'll die of anxiety if I just have to wait here not knowing if you're okay."

"You could've come along for a salt and burn, Sam. But I don't know what to expect with this one."

"All the more reason you'll need backup," Sam says. 

"I hate it when you get logical, Spock. Fine, come with me. But you stay in the car unless I say you can come out, and you do exactly as I ask you to. Deal?"

Sam nods, some of the tightness in his chest dissipating. 

Dean reaches over to ruffle his hair, a quick drag of his fingers over the crown of Sam's head. "And we're gonna talk about this anxiety thing."

 

\--

 

It goes off spectacularly well. 

At least Sam thinks it does. He figures out while sitting in the car that there are two ghosts, not just one, and tears into the house just in time to pump rock salt through the second one before it gets his brother. 

They bicker all the way back to the motel, but Sam thinks it was worth it. 

His conviction is tested when Dean confronts him after they've showered and made coffee (Dean's with a shot of whiskey). 

"You disobeyed me." He sounds so much like Dad in that moment. _You disobeyed a direct order, Sam."_

“Wasn’t aware you were the boss of me,” Sam shoots back, perfectly aware that it’s very far from the truth.

“I am the boss of you, you little dick. Dad left me in charge and that means you do as I fucking say.”

“Don’t recall Dad saying you could curse at me.”

“Don’t recall Dad saying you could ignore my orders.”

“I saved your hide back there, you jerk.”

“I could’ve handled it just fine, you bitch.”

“Don't call me that,” Sam says, furious. “You don’t get to call me that when you act like Dad and try to rule my fucking life.”

“So I can call you a bitch if I’m not trying to rule your fucking life?” Dean says, straight-faced.

Sam stares at him for a moment. It takes him a minute to get that Dean’s joking. Here they are, just having escaped with their lives yet again, not to mention the animosity that’s silently been growing between them for the last several weeks, and Dean’s _joking_.

Sam keeps staring at him, bewildered, as Dean starts to laugh. “Oh, Sammy. Your face.” He throws himself on the bed, face to the ceiling, and keeps laughing. “Am I allowed to call you ‘Sammy,’ Sammy?”

“You’re a complete jerk, you know that?”

“Yep.”

“A total asshole.”

“Guilty as charged.”

“I fucking hate you.”

“I know you do.” Dean doesn’t open his eyes, but he stops laughing, the grin wiped clean off his face like it was never there. “Get some pizza or something if you’re hungry. Money’s in my wallet.” He turns over with his back to Sam, conversation over.

 _I didn’t mean that_ , Sam thinks. _Dean, you have to know I didn’t mean that._ But it’s too late to say anything now, to take back his words, the room still echoing with the horrible sound of them as though it were Sam and not Dean who’d spoken last.

He hides in the bathroom for a while, slumped against the cold floor, wondering how it’s possible to almost constantly be with someone else and be as lonely as he is. Sometimes he wonders if Dean is just as lonely. He doesn’t seem to be going on dates at all at the moment, but then they aren’t together all day when Sam’s at school, and maybe. Maybe Dean’s seeing someone at work, or fucking someone during the day. Having sex every day when Sam’s not around, when his annoying little brother isn’t there to be a third wheel. Bringing someone back to this room, their room, having sex on his bed, on Sam’s bed. 

Sam scrubs furiously at his eyes when he realizes they’ve been wet for a while now. He isn’t going to be upset over something that he can’t control. His fucking jerk of a big brother, one word from whom can light Sam up from the inside, can tear Sam up so badly that the invisible wound takes weeks to heal sometimes. Sam tells himself that those wounds don’t hurt as bad as the ones from fangs or claws, that the invisible pain in his insides is a luxury, is nothing compared to the very tangible battle wounds that they get on the job. That Dean gets, mostly, because he rarely allows Sam to be put in a position where he can get hurt.

It’s strange how Sam’s quiet tears leave him even more exhausted than angry sobbing can. He splashes some water on his face and opens the door, expecting Dean to be asleep.

He isn’t. He’s sitting at the edge of his bed, a bottle of cold water in his hands that he must have gotten out of the fridge. He holds out the half-empty bottle to Sam, his gaze lingering on Sam’s red eyes.

Sam takes the bottle, acting on auto-pilot. He sinks down on to the bed next to Dean, trying to ignore the thrill of putting his mouth where Dean’s just was. He doesn’t know if the mouth of the bottle is wet from the water or from Dean’s mouth. Probably both. He puts his lips carefully around the rim of the bottle and drinks, not stopping until the bottle is empty.

Dean takes the bottle from his hand, not touching him, and replaces the cap before tossing it on the night table and lying back down, swinging his legs around Sam’s body so that he can stretch out. Sam can see from the corner of his eye that Dean’s eyes are open, his arms crossed behind his head.

“I didn’t mean that.” He looks down at his hands. The anxiety is just a low throb somewhere deep down at the moment, biding its time; it’ll flare up the next time Dean goes hunting without Sam. Right now what he’s feeling most strongly is pure misery. He forces himself to turn toward Dean, suddenly desperate to make his brother believe him. “Dean. I didn’t.”

“I know.” Dean straightens up a bit, reaches out to rub his hand along Sam’s spine. “I know, kid.”

Sam closes his eyes, his body thrumming with nervous energy as Dean’s hand curls around the nape of his neck, his thumb rubbing under Sam’s hair. “Dean.”

“I know,” Dean says again. “C’mere.” He pulls Sam close until his head is on Dean’s shoulder. Sam lets himself curl up next to Dean, their bodies pressed together in a long line. They haven’t done this in a long time.

Dean’s hand moves away from Sam’s neck, and Sam feels the loss keenly until Dean’s fingers thread through his hair. He relaxes against Dean’s chest, putting a hesitant arm around Dean’s waist. He’s not sure yet if he’s earned this.

But Dean seems to approve, letting out a low hum as he pets Sam’s hair, shifting a little closer to him. “It happens, Sam. We’re always in each other’s way. You’re sixteen, and you have no privacy. Maybe we should think about getting a different place, hmm? One where you can have a bedroom of your own. Give you some space.”

“Maybe,” Sam says, his voice muffled against Dean’s neck. He knows it’ll never work. Dean doesn’t really earn enough to afford a bigger place, even with the money Sam makes with his part-time after-school jobs. And even if they could somehow scrounge up the funds to get a bigger place, they don’t know how long they’ll be in this town, when Dad will turn up to drag them away, off to a new place yet again.

“Sam. I mean it.”

Sam shakes his head as much as his cramped position allows. He’s pretty much pinned down next to Dean’s side, but he doesn’t want to move. “I don’t. I don’t need that, Dean.”

“Then what? What do you need, Sam?” Dean’s voice is soft, non-confrontational, as though he’s genuinely asking, and not just trying to rile Sam up. “I. I can make up a bed on the couch and let you have the bedroom to yourself if. If you...”

“Dean. I’m okay with sharing.”

Dean sighs, his breath fluttering in Sam’s hair. He doesn’t say anything else for a long time, and Sam’s almost asleep when he hears Dean’s last words, spoken almost only to himself. “I wish you could have a better life, Sammy.”

 

\--

 

They wake up tangled together. The blankets are tucked in around them, covering them up to their chins, and Dean’s body is warm beside Sam’s in their makeshift cocoon. 

Sam remembers his near-breakdown the night before, the conversation in the dark, Dean’s fingers in his hair. The memory fills him with something suspiciously like pride, despite that harsh thing he’d said to Dean, the thing he didn’t mean. He doesn’t want to remember his words in the light of day, the way Dean’s body had gone rigid and closed off with hurt. He spends his life in fear that Dean will get hurt, and last night he’d been the one to hurt Dean.

“Morning, sunshine,” Dean says around a huge yawn, pulling his arms free of the blanket to stretch them above his head. “I gotta go to work. Want me to give you a ride somewhere?”

It takes Sam a moment to remember that it’s Saturday. He doesn’t have to go to school, but Dean works the whole day on Saturdays. No one else at the garage comes in, so Dean gets paid overtime.

“Nah, I’m good.”

“No plans?”

Sam shrugs, watching as Dean climbs out of bed. “Go over to Audrey’s later. Do homework.”

“Homework, huh? That a euphemism for something else?”

“You have a one-track mind, Dean.” Sam jumps out of bed and beats Dean to the bathroom.

 

\--

 

Audrey is Sam’s closest friend from school. He calls her Hepburn and she’s called him Hemingway ever since they read _A Farewell to Arms_ a few weeks ago and he fell in love with the book. He can’t tell her that it had him from the title. Just the thought of giving up arms, of living a regular life in which he has nothing more to worry about than bills and mortgages and maybe vaccinations for his dog is so compelling that Sam fantasizes about the idea for hours sometimes.

That day, they take their books out into the backyard of Audrey’s house. It’s too nice a day to stay indoors, and the grass in the back lawn is springy and comfortable. They lie on their backs in the sun while they’re taking a break from work, tall glasses of iced lemonade sitting on the ground beside them.

“Sam?” Audrey says, sounding comfortably sleepy, her dark shoulder-length hair, very much like Sam’s, fanned out beneath her head.

“Mm?”

“Are you gay?”

Sam turns to face her. “Why would you ask me that?”

She turns too so that their positions are mirrored, reaching out to push a strand of hair out of his face. “Do you mind my asking?”

“No.”

“I think I am,” she says, and Sam’s anxiousness disappears when the reason for her question becomes apparent. “That’s why I asked. I thought you. That maybe you.”

Sam lets out a long breath. “I don’t know.” He tangles his hand with hers. “How did you know?”

“I’m not sure either. But, I. Uh. I think I’m in love with Dana. You know her? Blonde, gorgeous? Her dad owns the garage on fourth?”

“Yeah, I’ve seen her around. My brother works there. The garage.” He smiles at her, squeezes her hand. “Good choice. She seems awesome.”

Audrey sits up, hugging her knees. “I don’t think she even knows I exist.”

Sam puts his arm around her shoulders, not really sure what to say.

“How did you. I mean, what makes you think you might like guys? Is, is there someone?”

“Uh, yeah. I think so.”

“You think so?” she says, her tone gentle, teasing.

Sam grins back. “Yeah, I. I’m not sure if it’s like that, you know? I just really like him, and I like it when he’s nice to me. I just. I don’t know what it’s supposed to mean.”

They sit quietly for a few minutes, sipping their lemonade, and Sam has the silent realization that a small weight has been lifted off his shoulders. He’d been pretty sure Audrey didn’t like him like that, but having confirmation of it has made him a lot more secure in her company. 

They’re just finishing up when his phone buzzes. “Hey,” Dean says when Sam answers. “I’m heading home. Want me to pick you up? If you’re done.”

He blinks for a moment, suspicious about the lack of innuendo in Dean’s tone. “Uh, sure. We’re done.”

“Be there in five,” Dean says, and hangs up.

“That him?” Audrey asks. She’s smiling.

“What? No. It. That was my brother.”

“Oh. He picking you up?”

“Yeah.”

“Sam, will you go to the prom with me?”

Sam blinks at her. “What?” he says again. “I thought you. You said you were—”

“Not. Not like that, Sam. I just. I don’t want to go with any other guy and give him the wrong idea, you know? Since we both like people we can’t go with, I thought, I thought we could just go together.”

“I’m not sure I can go, Hepburn. We—my dad might be back by then and maybe. I’m not sure.”

“Okay, well, if you can go, let me know? It’s no biggie.”

“You really wanna go, huh?”

She shrugs. “I know it’s mostly for the cheerleaders and the jocks and all that. I just thought it might be fun to go with someone I actually like, and maybe snark at everything.”

Sam grins. “I’ll try to make it. Promise.”

The Impala’s horn blares then, and Sam gathers up his stuff and slings his bag over his shoulder.

Audrey comes up to the car with him, bending to say hi to Dean through the passenger window.

“Hey,” Dean says easily, leaning across to shake her hand. “Audrey, right? I’m Dean. I was just gonna take Sammy for a bite at the diner. You wanna come with?”

“Not this time, but thanks,” Audrey says with a smile. “My parents will be home soon and tonight’s family night, apparently.” She rolls her eyes and tucks her hair behind her ear.

“All right,” Dean says easily, giving her a wave. “Some other time, then.”

As the car pulls away, Dean looks over with a smirk. “So that’s your little girlfriend? She’s cute.”

“I told you it’s not like that.” Sam ruins the effect of the statement by adding, “She asked me to the prom.”

“How is it not like that if she asked you on a date?”

“Promise you won’t tell anyone?”

“That you’re going out with her? Pretty sure people are going to see you at the prom, princess. Unless you were planning on wearing your invisibility cloak.”

“Asshole. I meant don’t tell anyone what I’m going to tell you. She, uh. She thinks she’s gay. And she wants to go with me because she came out to me.”

To Sam’s absolute surprise, Dean doesn’t make any inappropriate lesbian jokes. In fact, he stays silent for the next couple of minutes, until they pull into the diner’s parking lot. Then he turns to Sam, his expression more serious than Sam’s seen in a while.

“So, she wants to go with you because she’s a lesbian and she doesn’t want some horny teenage dude’s hands all over her at the dance.”

“Thanks for the gross mental image, but yeah. That’s about it.”

“So what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Why do you want to go with a lesbian and ruin your chances of getting laid on prom night?”

“Dean!”

“Dude, come on. Everyone gets laid on prom night.”

“I am so not having this conversation with you.” Sam gets out of the car and heads into the diner.

Dean doesn’t let it go. “Look,” he says the moment he slides into the seat across from Sam. “I know you’re a virgin and all, but—”

“Dean!” Sam says in a furious whisper, looking around. “Would you keep it down? Someone could hear you!”

“Okay, okay, jeez. Sorry.”

“I swear to god, Dean, if you say another word I’m walking back home right now.”

Dean mimes zipping his mouth shut, and they actually have a relatively quiet and peaceful meal for once.

 

\--

 

Dean goes out on Sunday afternoon and returns in the early evening with a rented tux.

Sam just stares at it for a moment, completely at a loss for words. It had been worrying him that he didn’t have anything to wear, that he might have to take up several extras hours of tutoring and odd jobs to be able to afford a tux, not the best thing to have to do so close to his exams. 

“Dean, you. You didn’t have to do this. I don’t even know if I can go. What if, you know. Dad.”

“You wanna go to your prom, Sammy, then you should go. If Dad makes a fuss, I’ll handle it.” Dean nods at the suit. “Go on, try it on.”

He disappears into the bathroom for a shower and Sam changes quickly. He’s examining himself critically in the mirror when Dean emerges in a cloud of steam, wearing the soft, worn-in sweats that he wears to bed.

“Wow, Sammy. Gonna knock ’em dead.”

“You think so?” Sam peers at Dean through his bangs, hoping he isn’t smirking.

“You clean up real nice, kid,” Dean says, grinning proudly. 

Sam flushes at the sincerity of Dean’s tone, the praise going straight through him like a warm shot of alcohol. 

 

\--

 

As it turns out, Sam does get to go to his junior prom. Except Dean isn’t there.

Dad calls on the morning of the prom to give Dean info about their next job, and Sam can tell from the look on Dean’s face that what Dad’s saying isn’t exactly great news.

“Another job?” he asks when Dean hangs up, dreading the answer.

Dean nods. “Couple of towns over. Gotta leave right away. You gonna be okay by yourself for a couple days?”

“I’m going with you.”

“Sammy, you have the prom today.”

“Fuck the stupid prom, Dean. You think I care about that when you’re just going to drive off into some sort of horrible danger?”

“I’ll be fine, Sam. I’m always fine. ’Sides, Dad’s going to be there.”

“Oh. You sure?”

“Yeah, kiddo. He’ll have my back.”

“What is it? What are you going to hunt?”

“Poltergeist, I think. He didn’t really share too many specifics.”

“Call me, okay? Call me when you’re done?”

Dean nods. “Yeah, I’ll call. I was gonna let you have the car tonight, but...”

“Take the car, Dean. I’ll be fine.”

Dean sighs. “Sorry, Sammy. Come to the garage with me, okay? I’ll ask Dave if he can spare some wheels.”

Dean is as good as his word. They stop by the garage—Dean’s asked for the day off, even though not working on a Saturday means losing good money, and Sam, for the millionth time, feels a twinge of irritation at their father—and Dean fixes him up with a ’76 Chevy. 

“Not the Impala, but she’ll do,” he says with a grin, tossing Sam the keys. “Told the boss you’ll have her back by tomorrow afternoon.”

“Thanks, Dean.” Dean’s looking at him a little nervously, as though Sam might not think the car’s good enough for his big date, and Sam makes a show of admiring the sleek navy blue car. “It’s awesome.”

Dean’s face relaxes into a genuine smile, and Sam has to fight back the sudden urge to hug him. 

“Oh,” Dean says, reaching into his bag. “Almost forgot.” He hands Sam a thin file.

“What’s this?”

“Knew you were busy with that science project, so I signed you up for the PSATs. And made an appointment with you with the school counselor on Monday.”

“The counselor?”

“You gotta talk to someone, Sam.”

“About what?” Sam asks blankly.

“That anxiety stuff you mentioned.” 

“Dean.”

“Come on, Sam. This isn’t optional.”

“You can’t just make these decisions for me,” Sam snaps. “You’re not my father.”

Surprised hurt flares on Dean’s face for a second before he tamps it down. “Fine. I’ll get your _father_ to speak to the school. You’re going to that appointment.”

“And tell them what? That I’m fucked up because my family hunts supernatural things? Huh? Is that what you want me to say?”

“Jesus, Sam. Just make something up. Say your dad’s commissioned or something.”

“So, you want me to lie? Real good idea, lying to a counselor.”

Dean stares at him for a moment, and then tosses his bag into the shotgun seat of the Impala. “Whatever. Have fun at the prom.”

 

\--

 

Sam’s favorite book by far is _The Lord of the Rings_. He finds something to like about pretty much every book he reads, but no book has stuck in his mind the way that one has. At sixteen, he’s already read the whole of it thrice, and some parts of it more often. 

When he was a few years younger, Dean had declared that he was finally ready to move on from _The Hobbit_ and bought him a copy of the huge book, complete with John Howe’s illustrations, from a second-hand bookshop. Sam had instantly fallen in love.

He remembers reading it for the first time. One musty night, he and Dean had sneaked out and driven the Impala into a field, lying back on the hood with root beers and watching the stars. 

“I think I’m Gollum,” Sam said. His head was on Dean’s shoulder, and he was content and sleepy.

“Hm?”

“Gollum. From the book. I’m most like him.” He rolled his head a bit to glance up at Dean. “Who are you most like?”

“Arwen,” Dean said promptly, and Sam dissolved into giggles. “What? She’s only in it for like two pages, but she totally kicks ass.”

“Dean. Be serious.”

“Okay, then. You’re totally Frodo, kid.”

“Really? You think so?”

“’Course. Small and hairy and all that.” Dean ruffled Sam’s hair, as though to prove his point. 

Sam didn’t bother to point out that hobbits had hairy _toes_ , not hairy... hair. If that made any sense. He was too content to dwell on it. He snuggled closer, incredibly proud at the thought that Dean considered him the hero of the book. “And you’re Aragorn,” he said firmly.

As he’s grown older, Sam’s started to relate places he goes to with places in Middle Earth. He can’t decide if he likes Rivendell or Lothlórien better, so his favorite libraries usually become one of the two. The places they hunt things are always Mordor, and Mordor is always the worst in his head when he’s left behind alone. The Impala is, of course, the Shire. The place he calls home, the most important person in the world at the wheel. 

Prom night feels like Mordor with Dean away on a hunt. It shouldn’t, because Dad’s with Dean, he must have Dean’s back, but it does. Happy people are all around them, laughing and dancing and surreptitiously spiking the punch, and the noise is beginning to pound inside Sam's head.

"You seem distracted," Audrey says, linking her arm with Sam's as they lean against a wall, sipping from their glasses of punch. "Worried about something?"

"Not really," Sam says, but Audrey gives him a skeptical look, and he sighs. "My brother. He's, uh. Gone out of town."

"On business?"

"Yeah. To help out my dad."

"What does he do?"

"He's. Kind of a freelancer. Sales and stuff. You know. Family business."

"So why are you worried?" She presses gently, concern in her eyes now. He supposes he looks kind of manic. 

"Well. He. Uh. He's gonna be working. Like, really long hours. And then he's gonna be tired and driving for hours and I just. I worry."

"I won't tell you not to worry." She squeezes his arm. "But Dean looks like the strong type, you know? I think he'll be okay."

"Yeah?" Sam can't help but smile at her. Sometimes it takes someone who knows nothing at all about your life to give you a little perspective, he thinks as they head over to the punch bowl for refills. Of course Dean's going to be okay. He's been okay every single time he's gone hunting with Dad, so this time shouldn't be any different. The odds are in their favor, really. 

The thought lessens the anxiety inside him a little, although he knows he won't stop listening for the buzz of his phone until Dean calls. He knows all too well that a hunt, any hunt, means injuries. Sometimes they're life-threatening and sometimes they're just scratches, but they're always there. Sometimes he wants to scream aloud at how unfair it is. Why should it be his brother who gets hurt to save other people? Why can't it be someone else, someone who doesn't have anyone waiting for them, loving them, worrying themselves to the point of nausea?

Sometimes he wishes really fucking hard that he wasn't trapped in this prison of worry, in this bottomless pit of love that is the entire history of his life, overwhelmingly defined by his love for his brother. 

 

\--

 

Dean doesn't call. 

When they leave the prom they're both very slightly tipsy from all the spiked punch. They walk back together from the school, leaving the car in the parking lot. Sam kisses Audrey on the cheek and says good night to her parents. 

By the time he walks out of their driveway and into the darkness of the street his anxiety is back full force, eating at his insides. He tries Dean's number. He was always going to try Dean's number the moment he said goodbye to Audrey, and somewhere inside he already knew that Dean wouldn't answer. 

Dean had said that he would call. And if he hasn't called, it means that something stopped him from calling. 

Three hours later he's crying, tears wetting his pillow as he buries his face in it to keep from howling in rage and fear. 

He tries to compose himself as best he can before calling again. He leaves a message this time. "Dean. Come on. I'm begging you, man. Just. Please. Give me a sign that you're okay. That you're alive. I. I'll do anything. Just. Just don't punish me like this. Dean, please. Please."

Just before he falls into exhausted sleep around four in the morning, he finds himself praying. Sam prays more often than he’ll ever admit to Dad or Dean, who are both pretty likely to scoff at the idea. But Sam’s brain insists that if there’ s so much evil in the world, then there must be some good to balance it out. He doesn’t know if anyone’s listening, but he’s pretty sure it can’t hurt to try.

 _I’m sorry_ , he thinks. _If you’re listening, I’m sorry I mostly only pray when I want something. But I need help. Please, I need help. Just bring him back safe and I’ll do anything. Anything. I’ll do whatever he wants. I’ll go to that stupid counseling session. Just please bring him back safe. I’m begging you. Please._

 

\--

 

He dreams of things he’ll never admit even to himself, and wakes to the sound of someone moving around in the bedroom.

“Dean?”

“Hey, Sam. Sorry if I woke you.” Dean looks up briefly from his phone, which is pressed to his ear. His expression changes. “You left me a message?”

Sam can’t really do much except sit up and drink his fill of looking at Dean. He seems intact, if a little tired. He vaguely remembers leaving a panicked message on Dean’s voicemail, but not much beyond that.

Dean drops the phone on his bed and comes to him. “Oh, Sam. My battery died and I couldn’t charge my phone because I was driving back. Didn’t want to leave you alone for longer than I had to. I’m so sorry, Sammy.”

Sam just nods, hoping they’re going to avoid talking about his voicemail, but Dean says “I’m sorry” and touches Sam’s face lightly, and that’s it. In the next second Sam’s wrapped tightly around him, shaking with bone-deep relief, his face pressed as close as possible to Dean’s neck. “I was really scared,” he says, his voice muffled against Dean’s skin. “Dean. I... just please don’t do that to me again.”

“I won’t. I’m sorry, Sammy, I... I won’t, I promise.”

Sam pulls away after a long minute, scrubbing his hand over his face. “Are you okay? Is Dad okay?”

“Yeah. It was just a routine thing.”

Sam nods in acknowledgement. “The car’s in the parking lot,” he says. “At school. I’ll get it tomorrow.”

Dean blinks, as though taking a moment to understand what Sam’s talking about. “How was the prom?” he asks finally.

Sam shrugs. He can’t really say _it sucked because I was thinking of you every moment, wondering if you were safe._

Dean watches him closely for a moment, and then pats Sam’s shoulder. “I need to sleep for a bit. Don't worry, okay? I’m fine.”

Sam nods, and just watches as Dean lies down on his bed, still dressed in his jeans and t-shirt, and closes his eyes. _Thank you_ , he thinks. _Thank you._ When Dean’s breathing evens out, Sam sits down at the foot of his bed and removes his brother’s shoes, leaving his socks on because it’s a little cold.

For a moment during his wild anxiety when he couldn’t reach Dean, he’d wondered if Dean was being punished because of Sam’s strange obsession with him, if this was karma’s way of ensuring that Sam’s weird desires never saw the light of day.

The logical part of him knows that it’s unlikely to be true, but he can’t silence the voice in his head that tells him that if there are forces of good, they probably want to punish evil. And whatever Sam’s feelings for his brother are, they definitely aren’t good.

Maybe, he thinks—daring to voice the thought to himself, and not for the first time—maybe Dean would be better off without him. Maybe he’d be safer without the weird invisible shadow of Sam’s wrongness following him everywhere.

 

\--

 

Dinner on Monday night is an awkward affair.

Sam had gone to school that afternoon to keep his appointment with the counselor. Dean knows he’d gone to school, and Sam can’t lie that he had an exam or project work to do, because Dean knows his school schedule. Sometimes it seems as though there’s nothing Dean doesn’t know about him except for the huge awful secret Sam’s carrying around inside him.

Dean’s home reasonably early for a change, as though he’s making an effort not to leave Sam alone for too long, and Sam can’t decide if he’s annoyed or touched. Probably a little of both. He can’t seem to make Dean understand the simplest of things these days, can’t seem to be able to make him see that it’s only when Dean’s away on a hunt that Sam gets his anxiety attacks.

They’re chopping up stuff for sandwich fillings when Sam finally decides to break the silence. “So, I. Met the counselor today.”

“Yeah?” Dean says, looking over at him. It’s obvious that he’s trying as hard as possible not to sound very interested for fear that Sam will shut down.

“Yeah. I told her that my dad was on active duty. Like you said. And that I was having anxiety attacks because of that.”

“What’d she say?”

“Well, she didn’t think I was crazy, for one. And, uh. She said I should probably try to make some more friends. I told her I have Audrey, but she didn’t seem to think that was enough. Recommended that I do a summer course or workshop or something, get to know some more people.”

“What’d you think about that?”

Sam shrugs. “I dunno. I guess I could try, maybe.”

Dean passes him a sandwich and takes a bite of his own before speaking again. “Maybe you should spend the summer at Bobby’s. Maybe if you aren’t with Dad and me you won’t know when we’re working, and...”

“Dean, no. That would make it a hundred times worse. I’d just be worrying all the time. And besides, this isn’t a big deal, okay? I don’t want you to worry about me. It’s just a stupid thing. I can handle it.”

“Sam, come on. It’s not a—”

“Drop it, Dean, okay? I just drank too much at the prom and then left that stupid message. It didn’t really mean anything. You wanted me to meet the counselor, and I did and she just told me some stupid shit. She knows squat about our lives. Now can we just drop it, please?”

Dean’s watching him with his sharp eyes, and Sam looks away. “Sure. If that’s what you want.” He picks up his plate and goes to sit on the couch, turning on the TV before he settles in. 

Sam crawls into bed and falls asleep to the faint sound of the TV from the living room, soothed by the evidence that Dean’s right there, safe and probably half-asleep by now, his feet propped up on the coffee table.

 

\--

 

After that conversation, there’s one thing Sam knows for sure: whatever it is he’s going through, he’s going to have to deal with it alone.

He can’t let Dean worry about Sam not being able to handle himself. Not when Dean risks his life on pretty much every hunt. The panic attacks just mean that he’s weak, weaker than he’d ever thought possible. He’s worse than a child, really, and there’s no way he has the right to make Dean worry about him when his brother’s out on a hunt and needs to be at his best. He can’t be worrying about the possibility that Sam’s having anxiety attacks while he’s away. Nothing should distract Dean from being alert and taking care of himself during a hunt. 

He’s also realized that he doesn’t love his father the way he loves Dean. He fears for his father’s safety, sure. But the thought of Dad being hurt doesn’t make him want to claw out his own insides. And the thought of Dad dying, the thought of him being killed by a monster... It’s absolutely devastating. Sam can almost taste the grief he’d feel if Dad were to be killed. 

But the thought of Dean dying is so desperately unimaginable that Sam can’t even process the whole of it. Sometimes he forces himself to remember that time in the parking lot when Dean had collapsed, just to make himself recall how he’d felt at the time. But he’d been fourteen then, and not really sure of his own thoughts. Now he’s older, and when he thinks of Dean being in a place where he can’t be saved, all Sam really knows for sure is that if Dean dies, Sam will follow right behind, because there’s no way he could be alive if Dean were not.

And buried somewhere under that mountain of anxiety, even deeper somewhere inside, is the fact that Dean’s praise makes Sam feel things he’s never felt before. He’s tried to pretend that he’s imagining things, that Dean doesn’t make him feel things that he has no right to feel, but it really doesn’t work.

Between trying to hide two huge things from Dean now—his anxiety and his... other thing, things are starting to get really strained between him and Dean.

Things take a turn when Dad calls one evening, just as Dean has walked in the door, covered with engine grease from work. 

Sam sees Dean's face tense up as he listens to whatever Dad’s saying, and then Dean says, “Where are you taking him?”

Dean's silent for a few seconds while Dad speaks. He doesn’t look at Sam.

“Where are you taking him?” Dean repeats. This time he glances at Sam, and Sam knows instantly that they're taking about him.

“What kind of job?” Dean says into the phone, pushing his greasy hand into his hair. And then, after a beat: “Why do you need Sam?”

Sam watches Dean's face change at whatever Dad says next. “By himself?” Dean asks, the hand not holding the phone clenching into a fist now.

“He’s not going.” A pause. “I said he’s not going with you. He’s sixteen. He belongs in school, not on a monster hunt.”

Another pause, and then Dean's voice becomes sharper. “No, sir. I won’t have him drop out like I did because he’s too busy training and learning how to kill things to do his homework. He’s not going to have that life. I won’t let you—”

Dad obviously cuts him off then, because Dean's face scrunches up in frustration, his mouth open to start speaking as soon as he’s allowed. “He’s not some spare soldier that you can train to do your work for you. Find another hunter or let me do it. Not Sam.” He hangs up the phone without waiting for a response.

“What was that about?” The question is barely out of Sam’s mouth when his own phone starts to ring.

“Don't answer it.”

“Dean.” The screen says _Dad calling_. Sam moves to pick up the phone.

“Sam, do not answer that phone.”

Sam stares at him. “What the fuck did he say to you?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Does to me.” Sam’s clutching the still ringing phone in his hand now.

“Sam, if you answer that call, so help me god, I’ll.”

“Is he okay?”

“He’s fine,” Dean says shortly, a bite in his tone that Sam hasn’t really heard before.

“Okay.” Sam says, hating the sight of the tightness in Dean’s expression. He puts the phone down on the bed, and they’re both silent until it stops ringing.

“Switch it off.”

Sam picks up the phone and keeps the power button pressed until the screen goes dead. 

“Good boy,” Dean says, and then he comes over and hugs Sam.

Sam is so surprised that he’s frozen in Dean’s embrace for a moment, letting Dean wrap his arms around him and squeeze him tight.

“Don't go anywhere with him, Sammy,” Dean says, his face pressed into Sam’s hair. “Promise me you won’t go anywhere with him if I’m not around.”

“I.” Sam’s face is squished against Dean’s chest, his heart pounding. Part of him wants to know right now why the promise is being elicited from him, but most of him just responds to Dean’s tone. “I promise.”

Dean lets out a shaky breath, pulling back a little but not letting go of Sam. “Good,” he says, brushing Sam’s hair back from his forehead.

“Dean, what’s this about?”

“He wants to start training you to go on hunts alone.” 

Sam looks up at Dean, more than a little surprised. “So?”

“So, you’re not going.”

“Why not?”

“Why not? Sam, you’re sixteen.”

“Way older than you were when you started helping Dad.”

“Sam, I. I do it so you don’t have to.”

“What?” Sam hadn't thought there’d be anything Dean could say that would shock him.

“I. It’s not only because of that, Sam, but. But it’s my job to look out for you. And he wants to send me on another job and take you with him. I can’t—I won’t allow that. I won’t ever allow that.”

“Dean,” Sam says, and his voice is little more than a whisper. “I have to start sometime.” It’s a half-hearted protest, Sam unable to put much effort into it because something large and warm is swelling in his chest.

“No. No, you don’t. All you gotta do is go to school and put that genius brain of yours to work and get an education.”

Sam shakes his head, still clinging to Dean a little. “Dean, it’s not real. That school stuff. Trying to protect me from monsters isn’t going to make them go away.”

“That’s what I’m here for. Don’t you see? I’m here to worry about that stuff so you don’t have to.”

“What if. Dean, what if you aren’t around? I have to learn how to—”

“We do plenty of training, don’t we? I’ve followed his regime, Sam. I’ve put you through all the training he asked me to. You have damn good reflexes and you know everything there is to know about fighting these things. And what you don’t know yet, I’ll teach you. We’ll keep training, okay? But you are not going out there on your own.”

“It’s my choice to make!”

“Yes, it is. When you’re eighteen. You’re a minor, Sam. I’m not having that choice taken away from you.”

“But you didn’t have that choice!”

“Exactly,” Dean says, looking almost pleased that Sam’s figured it out. “I never had the choice. And I’m not letting the same thing happen to you, Sam.”

Sam stares at him, open-mouthed for a second. “But I want to have that choice now. Not two years from now.”

“If you had the choice now, what would you choose, Sammy? Would you choose this life? Huh? Are you really gonna tell me that you’d prefer hunting monsters to getting an education?”

“That’s all... that’s just theory, Dean. Classrooms and lectures. It’s nothing, nothing at all to do with the real world! The world you and Dad fight in.”

“It’s everything to do with it, Sam. It’s the power to be informed and make your own choices. Understand what your options are.”

“If the other option is to have my nose stuck in a book while you go out and risk your life, then there’s no way I’m choosing it.”

“Look, Sam, I know Dad and I—”

“No.” Sam shakes his head. “Not him. Just you.”

“Sam, he’s our dad.”

“And he’s hell-bent on revenge for Mom. Yeah, Dean, I get that. But Mom wouldn't have wanted this life for us. And you sure as hell didn’t choose this life any more than I did. And as long as you’re in it, as long as you could get hurt, I’m in it too.”

“I’m responsible for—”

“Is that all you ever think about?” Sam says, hating the sudden sting in his eyes. “Dad’s stupid words? Take care of Sammy? Huh? Is that what I am to you? Something that it’s your duty to protect?”

Dean stares at him. “The hell you talkin’ about?”

“That’s it, isn’t it? Christ, Dean, you’re obeying Dad’s orders even when you’re defying them! He’s... he’s programmed you to believe that it’s your job to protect me, and that’s all I’ve become to you—a stupid, helpless kid who drags you down all the time and—”

“Shut the hell up, Sam.” Dean’s hand is in his hair now, gripping it tightly: not hard enough for it to really hurt, but enough that Sam can’t move his head without actually hurting himself. “Shut up and listen to me. You’re not a _thing_ that I have to keep safe. I don’t want to keep you safe because I have to. I don’t love you because I’m your brother and I have to. I want to, okay? Jesus, kid. You’re everything to me. Fucking everything. How do you not know that?”

“I.” Sam wants to talk, because having an opinion on everything is kind of his thing, but for once, and maybe even for the first time, he really doesn’t have anything to say.

Dean is so close to him. He’s just said that he loves Sam, and not because he has to. It would be so easy now, so easy to spill his secrets out to Dean, rip them out of his chest and put them in Dean’s hands, give himself up to Dean. Dean will understand. He’ll get it.

But the voice of reason in him instantly tells him that that would be a horribly selfish thing to do. Even if Dean understands, it’ll break him. Dean already loves Sam as much as he can. Sam has no right, none at all, to ask for more.

“I’m sorry,” is what he says, drawing Dean close and taking a shaky breath, his nose pressed against the hollow of Dean’s throat. “I’m sorry. I know. I know.”

 

\--

 

After their next hunt, Sam’s cheek is stinging slightly when they reach home. He can’t tell if it’s from where he hit the ground during the hunt or because he nodded off with the side of his face pressed to the window glass. 

Dean looks over at him. “You okay? Any dizziness, stuff like that?”

“I’ll be fine, Dean.”

Dean doesn’t look so sure. “Maybe you should get checked out.”

“I don’t need a doctor, Dean. I promise. Just help me inside.”

Dean does as asked, still looking a bit unhappy and chewing on his lip as he takes Sam’s arm and helps him into the house. 

Sam stops him with a hand on his chest when he attempts to follow Sam into the bathroom. “I just need to clean up a bit, Dean. I’ll be fine. Stop mothering.”

“At least let me stitch up your wound.” Dean nods at the gash on his arm.

“It doesn’t need stitches.”

“Can’t hurt to play safe, right?” Dean smiles winningly. It doesn’t reach his eyes, and Sam doesn’t have the energy to refuse him.

Fifteen minutes later he’s patched up and tucked into bed. “I’ll wake you in a couple of hours,” Dean says, smoothing Sam’s hair back.

“I don’t have a concussion,” Sam says. Attempting to roll his eyes takes too much energy.

 

\--

 

“Thought I told you to stay in bed,” Dean says with a frown as Sam wanders into the kitchen, yawning, to see what he’s up to.

“I’m good, Dean.”

“Hungry?”

“Starving,” Sam says. “I could happily eat one of your greasy burgers right now.”

Dean lets out a laugh. “Tough luck, tiger. I made you some rabbit food.” He slides a big bowl of salad across the table to Sam. Sam forks in without hesitation, letting out a moan at the first bite. It’s perfect, salad dressing just enough that it covers the veggies but doesn’t drip all over the place when Sam lifts it to his mouth, lettuce crunchy just the way Sam likes. There’s even some beet, carefully boiled and peeled, lending a little pink tinge to everything.

“Good?” Dean glances over.

“Perfect.”

Dean gives him a pleased little grin and takes another swig of his beer. “Beer? Or you wanna try this girly drink I made you?”

Sam grins into his salad, too content to be annoyed. “Whatever you like, Dean.”

“Good answer,” Dean says, and Sam’s head snaps up. But Dean’s already turned away, leaning into the fridge. He re-emerges with a tall glass of something that looks chocolate-y. He sticks a long straw and a little umbrella into it before putting it down in front of Sam with a flourish.

“Really, Dean?”

“Just try it, princess.”

Sam rolls his eyes and takes a sip. “Wow, Dean. What’s in it?”

“Guess.”

“Mm, chocolate. And... coffee?”

“Just a smidge. What else?”

“Whiskey.” Sam takes another sip. “Whipped cream. And...” Another sip. “Hazelnut.”

Dean claps him on the arm. “Top of the class, Sammy. Make it harder for you next time.”

“Make exactly this next time, and I’ll be your slave for life.” The words are out before Sam can help it, before he registers his own reaction to Dean’s praise. It isn’t even actual praise, not really, but for a moment Sam just lets himself relish the warmth curling through him all the way to his toes at Dean’s approval.

Dean gives him a look, snatching up his drink and taking a large sip before setting it down in front of him again. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Sam looks down into his glass, his stomach tightening in a way that isn’t really unpleasant. “Yeah?”

“Yep.” Dean’s busying himself with shredding cheese over an enormous bowl of steaming pasta now, but he glances at Sam. “Since you offered, and all.” He nods at the salad bowl. “Keep eating. Don’t want to get drunk on an empty stomach, do you?”

“We’re getting drunk?”

“Not the plan,” Dean says, carrying the pasta over to the table and sitting down next to Sam. “But with you being such a lightweight and all, one never knows.”

“Shut up.” Sam’s glad Dean’s next to him rather than across the table. “I can drink as much as you.”

“Cannot.”

“Can, too.” Sam snatches the bottle of oregano before Dean can get to it, holding it out of his reach.

“Oh, very funny. Real mature, Sammy.” But Dean’s grinning, eyes on Sam even while he takes the chili flakes and pretty much upends the bottle over his food.

Sam rolls his eyes and puts the oregano over Dean’s food himself, careful not to put too much. Dean grabs his wrist and makes him keep going. “Need to balance out the chili,” he says with a grin, his fingers warm against Sam’s skin, and if Dean keeps looking at him like that, Sam will put every last bit of oregano in Dean’s pasta if that’s what Dean wants.

“Seriously though,” Dean says with his mouth half-full. “You okay?” He nods toward the bandage on Sam’s arm.

“I’m good, Dean. Honest.”

“I’ll change the dressing after we eat.” Dean gives him a look as he opens his mouth. “No arguments, Sam.”

“Right,” Sam mutters, looking down at his plate and forking up some pasta. He’s become an expert at this over the last couple of years: hiding his expression and letting Dean think he’s pissed off so Dean doesn’t notice how it affects Sam when Dean gives him an order or speaks in that tone that doesn’t allow any arguments.

“Okay, seriously, what is up with you? You look like your puppy just died.” Dean reaches over to put his hand on Sam’s arm. “Sam?”

“It. It’s nothing, Dean. Just feeling a bit knocked out.” He isn’t even lying. Not really. Keeping things from Dean is exhausting, especially when he keeps imagining the look on Dean’s face when he finds out what Sam feels for him. Anger. Hurt. Disappointment. That one hurts the most. The thought of how disappointed Dean’s going to be in Sam. All that disapproval, the very opposite of the praise that Sam craves from his brother, has been craving pretty much all his life.

He almost wants Dean to take his drink away, say “that’s enough, Sammy,” punish him in some small way that might make Sam feel better about everything, even as he tells himself that it’s a selfish hope, hoping that Dean will do something that he won’t even know he’s doing. It’s a way to use Dean to make himself feel better. 

Dean’s silent for a moment, and when Sam glances up at him, there’s worry on his face. And Sam put it there. He feels instantly guilty, his need to reassure Dean climbing to the top over every other need. “It’s fine, Dean,” he says quickly. “I didn’t mean. I’m not in pain or anything. Not much. Just worried, you know? About what Dad’s going to say. I’m fine otherwise. I promise.”

Dean looks confused for a moment, as though he’s forgotten about Dad. “Oh. That. It hasn’t bothered me much, Sam. He’s usually too busy to bother about us much. You know? I don’t think he’s going to go out of his way to bother with us right now.”

Sam’s sure that the smile he attempts looks more like a grimace. “He will at some point, though. And he’s not going to be happy with us, Dean. You know what he’s like when he thinks we’re being insubordinate. And maybe. I don’t know, Dean. Maybe he has a point, you know?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” Dean says, and it sounds like a promise.

 

\--

 

After dinner, Dean refuses to leave Sam alone.

He almost follows Sam into the bathroom again when Sam decides to take a shower, and Sam has to suffer getting his arm carefully wrapped in a cut-up shower cap before Dean allows him under the water.

Truth be told, Dean’s overt concern for him is both pleasing him and making him fear that he’ll give himself away somehow. It’s getting more and more difficult to be touched by Dean, to feel Dean’s worry for him so tangibly, without betraying the fact that he loves it when Dean brushes his hair back or gently treats his wounds. Hell, he’s even begun to hope he’ll get bruised every time they go on a hunt just so he can get to feel Dean touching him, and even Sam knows that that isn’t good.

He dries himself and puts on a pair of Dean’s clean sweatpants—his are all in the laundry bag—and starts rubbing a towel in his wet hair before stepping out of the bathroom.

Dean’s sitting on the edge of Sam’s bed, and he’s got one hand behind his back.

“What’re you up to?” Sam says, instantly suspicious. 

“Not gonna prank you when you’re down and out, Sammy,” Dean says, but he’s smirking. He pulls his arm out from behind his back with a small flourish. “Presents!”

He’s holding a box gaily wrapped with glittery paper.

“What’s the catch? That a jack in the box, clown face and all?”

“You wound me, little brother. Just told you I wouldn’t prank you when you’re hurt.”

“It’s just a scratch, Dean. I’ll live.” The words ring a bit hollow, given the fact that they risk their lives pretty much every time they go hunting.

“You’ve kept your 4.0 average and I bet you’ll ace the PSATs. I figured you deserve a little treat.”

“So it’s an actual present?”

“Honest to god, Sammy.”

“Fine.” Sam holds out his hand. “Hand it over.”

“You’re welcome,” Dean says, rolling his eyes, but he hands it over.

Sam shakes it a bit. “Too light to be books.”

Dean grins. “Keep going.”

“If this is a gag gift, I’m gonna skin you. Just so you know.”

“Point noted.”

Sam turns the box over in his hands. He shakes it again. There’s a tiny rattle from within, as though something is a little loose inside. “Movies?”

“Made it too easy for you. But which ones?”

“The _Die Hard_ series.”

“Dude, that would be a present for me, not you.”

“ _Star Wars_.”

“We have those already.” It’s true. Bobby had bought them a box set one Christmas, and it’s at his place for times when they crash there and marathon the series on his VCR.

Sam laughs. “Fine. I give up.”

“Open it.”

Sam opens the wrapping carefully, trying not to tear the paper. Dean makes an impatient sound, but Sam shushes him. It’s always been their thing when Sam takes his time over opening a gift and Dean is impatient to see his reaction.

When the paper falls away, Sam is silent for a long moment. He tries to speak around the huge lump in his throat. “You remembered.” 

It’s the animated versions of _The Hobbit_ and _The Lord of the Rings_. They’d seen the movies for sale a couple years ago while hanging around at a bookstore waiting for Dad to pick them up. They’d been way too expensive for the boys to buy and Sam hadn't bothered asking Dad if he could get them, knowing that Dad would see it as a frivolous expense, but Dean had squeezed him around the shoulders and told him that one day he’d buy them for Sam. 

“’Course. Knew you’ve wanted to watch these forever, giant geek that you are.”

They don’t talk much about _The Lord of the Rings_ anymore, although Dean makes the occasional reference to it. Sam almost never takes up where Dean leaves off, the memory of that night when he was fourteen and they watched the stars together, so much closer to each other than they are now, still too painful to consider. And now he’s holding the animated movies in his hands. 

“I’m not a kid anymore, you know.” He hates the words almost as soon as they’re out of his mouth. It’s become his coping mechanism these days to say things that make it sound like he’s pissed off, and hope like hell that Dean doesn’t notice what Sam feels for him. The downside of it—and it’s a big one—is that it almost always results in that hurt look on Dean’s face, as though he doesn’t know what he’s done to piss Sam off.

Dean just shrugs this time, his expression getting a bit closed off, and Sam instantly wants to bring back the warmth that was on Dean’s face just a moment ago. If Dean says “Whatever, Sam,” and that’s the end of the subject, it would be unbearable. 

Instead, Dean says: “You don’t have to pretend with me, you know.”

Sam’s head snaps up, his eyes wide. “What?”

“I’m not Dad, Sam. I know you don’t like to let him know about stuff you like. You don’t… You want him to treat you like an adult. But you don’t have to do that with me, okay?”

Sam rolls his eyes, trying not to show Dean how his words affect him. “So you can keep treating me like a kid?”

Dean doesn’t get discouraged. “So I can get you stuff you like and you can enjoy it without having to be afraid about what I’m going to think. It’s okay to want stuff, Sam. It’s okay to like books and movies and music and all that other stuff that you want.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, giving in. He swallows hard. “Thanks, Dean.”

Dean’s grin is blinding. “Anytime, Sammy.” 

Sam realizes with a jolt that there’s something he doesn’t know about Dean. “Dean. Did you ever watch these films?”

“’Course I did.”

Sam opens his mouth and shuts it again. He suddenly has an image in mind of Dean in a darkened room, watching the films without Sam at his side. Maybe he’d had his arm around someone else, someone who smelled nice, someone he’d fucked later.

“With. With a girlfriend?”

Dean has a curious look on his face. “What’s it to you?”

“You did, didn’t you.” Sam’s sure his face is burning, but he presses on, suddenly desperate to know. “I thought we’d watch them together someday, but you watched them with someone you were fucking.”

“Sam,” Dean begins, his tone both a warning and a plea.

And Sam has no choice but to stop talking, not when Dean has the ability to say his name like that. When he can make Sam’s name sound like so many words that haven't been invented yet, like they have a language made just for two that consists of nothing but their names.

“What’s it to you?” Dean says again. This time his fingertips touch Sam’s cheek, so lightly that Sam wouldn’t have known they were there if his eyes weren’t open.

“Dean.” He leans into the touch despite himself, desperate for more and terrified of what he’ll do if he actually gets it.

“Sammy. I... how long’s this been going on?”

Sam has to look up then, terrified but unable to stop himself. He has to know what Dean’s thinking. He has to. There’s no disgust on Dean’s face that he can make out, just curiosity and something that looks a lot like affection. “I. Dean, please. I just... Please don’t ask me to talk about it.”

“Why not? You’re the one who used to love to talk about stuff. So talk to me, Sammy. Tell me what’s going on in that giant brain of yours.”

Sam closes his eyes, mortified.

“Come on, Sammy. You can look at me. You’ve done it a million times before.”

Sam shakes his head, eyes tightly shut. “Don't hate me. Please don’t hate me. Not you.”

“I don’t hate you, kiddo. I could never hate you.”

Sam glances at him, a brief glimpse of Dean’s face, his gorgeous eyes, before his gaze skitters away, landing on every part of the room except his brother.

“I know you have a thing for me. I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I’m not looking.”

Sam groans and drops his head in his hands.

Dean’s hand moves soothingly over the crown of his head. “Is this some sort of hero-worship thing? I thought you’d outgrown that. If it is, Sam, we can deal with it. It’s not the end of the world, okay?”

“It’s not that.” Sam’s voice is muffled by his hands.

“Then what? Is it a sex thing?”

Sam drops his hands. “Dean!”

“What? It’s not unheard of, Sam. Is it a sex thing?”

“You can’t—you can’t just say stuff like that.”

“Then you say it. Tell me what you’re thinking, Sammy. You gotta talk to someone. If you can’t talk about this shit to anyone else, then you’re gonna talk to me.”

“It’s not like that,” Sam starts, miserable. “It’s not what you’re thinking. I don’t want to... I don’t...”

“Hey, hey. It’s okay. I’m not judging you, all right? I swear. You can say anything to me, Sam. You know that.”

“It’s.” Sam pushes his hands back through his hair, realizing that his face is wet. “It’s all so. I’m so fucked up, Dean.”

“You’re not.” Dean hands him his towel, and Sam wipes his face. “No more than I am, at any rate.”

Sam sob-snorts into the towel. “You’re not fucked up. You’re perfect.”

“Perfect, huh?” Dean says, teasing lightly.

“Shut up. You know what I mean.” Sam flicks the towel at his face.

“Eww, dude. Gross.” Dean bats the towel away. He sounds so much like Sam’s brother in that moment that Sam feels something ease up inside him. “But seriously, Sammy. Help me understand what it is?”

“I. I’m not sure myself, Dean.”

Dean contemplates him for a moment. “Is it like... do you fantasize about me? About us? Together?”

“Dean,” Sam chokes out.

“Come on, kiddo. You can say anything, remember?”

“I don’t want you to. You know. Break my nose or something.”

Dean smiles at that. “I’m not going to hit you, Sam. And I’m not going to get mad. I promise.”

Sam’s already exhausted by the talk so far, his insides squirming to the point of hurting. “Can. Can we talk about this some other time? Please?”

To his immense relief, Dean nods immediately. “Yeah, Sammy, sure. I. I’m sorry if I pushed you. I didn’t mean to corner you like that.”

“It’s fine, Dean.” Sam scrubs a hand across his face, still not quite able to meet his brother’s eyes.

“Can I—do you want to sleep with me?”

Sam’s head jerks up, his eyes wide.

“Not like that!” Dean says in a rush. “Just, you know. Like when you were little. Just sleep with me.”

It’s what Sam wants more than anything in the world in that moment, but he hesitates.

“Just come here.” Dean holds out an arm in invitation. And Sam goes, just because he’d do anything if Dean asked him to. Dean’s arms are warm and solid around him, folding him into their embrace, and he tugs Sam down until they’re stretched out together, Dean on his back and Sam on his side, tucked up against Dean.

It’s the best place in the world, this space at Dean’s side that Sam’s always imagined is just for him, only for him. For a few minutes he’s hyper-aware of their closeness, of Dean’s breathing, but the overwhelming feeling of safety and warmth soon lulls him into sleep.

 

\--

 

They wake up tangled together as they have so many times in the past, but this time Dean knows, and it’s all different. It’s all changed in so many ways, and there’s nothing Sam can do to change it back.

Dean notices he’s awake; of course he does. There’s nothing about Sam that Dean doesn’t know, especially not now, and that thought creates a little bubble of contentment inside Sam that he wants to protect with everything he’s got. Dean knows. It’s done. Dean knows, and he didn’t hit Sam or call him names or walk out on him. All the hundred scenarios Sam had been imagining endlessly in his head, each worse than the previous one, haven’t happened.

“Come on,” Dean says, nudging him in the ribs and making Sam squirm away. “Up and at ’em, Sammy.”

“Five more minutes,” Sam says, hiding his grin in his pillow.

“Fine,” Dean says, falsely indulgent, and kisses the side of Sam’s head before dragging the covers off Sam. 

“It’s cold, you jerk!”

“You wanna stay in bed like a lazy little bitch, you get up and fight for the blankets.” Dean tosses the covers on the other bed and leans over Sam, his hands on either side of Sam’s head. “Guess I was right about you, huh? You always wanted to be my little bitch.”

“You’re a complete asshole,” Sam says, but he turns over on to his back, grins and braces his hands on Dean’s chest.

“Yeah?” Dean dips his head, says the word into Sam’s ear. “Something tells me you like this, little brother.”

Sam moves his hands up to Dean’s shoulders, feeling the strength of his muscles under the softness of his skin, his threadbare t-shirt. “Dean,” he says, and it sounds like a plea.

“Am I doing this wrong? You gotta tell me if I’m doing anything you don’t want, Sammy.” Dean’s mouth is still very close to Sam's ear, his breath a tangible thing against the soft shell of Sam's lobe. 

Sam swallows hard, so full of affection for Dean that he wonders if it’ll burst out of him and flare to the ceiling like fireworks. He tangles his fingers in Dean's hair. “Remember that time we almost burned down that field?” 

Dean pulls back a little, bringing his hands closer until they're cupping Sam's face. “Not what I asked, but yeah. ’Course I remember. Fourth of July, three years ago.” 

“Wanted to kiss you then. Wanted it so bad. When you defied Dad and gave me what I wanted. You didn’t get into trouble for it, did you?”

“It was totally worth it.” Dean runs his thumbs lightly over Sam's cheekbones. “You wanted to kiss me when you were thirteen?”

Sam can feel his face heat up. “Probably since before then.”

“How long?”

“I. I’m not really sure.”

“Sam.”

“It. It didn’t start off like that. Wanting to, you know. It was different.”

“Different how?” Dean's gaze is sweeping his face now, nothing within Sam hidden from it. 

“I just. I started liking it when you were nice to me.”

“I’m always nice to you,” Dean says, mock-affronted.

“You aren’t, you big jerk.” Sam keeps his arms wound tight around Dean's neck. “I mean nice like when you, uh. When you praise me. And...”

“And?” Dean's looking at him very intently now. 

Sam's pretty sure he’s blushing even harder now. “And nothing. That’s enough for today.”

But Dean doesn’t seem as hesitant this morning as he was last night. “If you tell me,” he murmurs, leaning down to Sam's ear again, “I might do it.”

Sam shudders against him, and feels Dean smile against his ear. “Is it a kinky thing, little brother? Hm?” He noses along Sam's ear.

“Dean.” Sam's mouth is almost too dry to say the word. 

Dean's hands slide to Sam's wrists, and gently tug his arms up over his head. “Is this okay?”

“Dean. Fuck. Yes. Yes, it’s okay.” He almost always wakes up with a low level of arousal thrumming under his skin, and now that Dean's saying and doing these things, the feeling is skyrocketing. 

“You want more? You wanna move your hips, rub off against me?”

“Dean.” Sam just about manages to choke out the word this time. He pulls experimentally at Dean's hold on his wrists. It doesn’t give in the slightest. 

“You gotta use your words, Sammy.”

“Yes. Yes. Dean, please.” 

“There’s my good boy,” Dean murmurs, shifting to get a leg between both of Sam's. “There you go, baby.”

The endearment hits Sam harder than the feel of Dean's strong thigh between both of his own. He can feel Dean against him through the thin cotton of their sweats, and he’s definitely feeling this as much as Sam is. “God, Dean. You’re.”

“Yeah, Sammy.” Dean's voice sounds strained. “Did you think you were the only one?”

Sam arches up against him with an almost-sob, his body thrilling at the friction. “You can’t mean...”

“I’ve been thinking about it, baby brother. Ever since I figured out how you felt. I’ve been. Fuck, Sam.”

“You didn’t. You couldn't possibly have known that I... how much I.”

“I do now.”

And Dean does, he really does. He keeps a firm hold on Sam's hands, not letting him squirm away, giving him as much room as he needs to thrust up against Dean's body, which is a long, hard line of warmth and desire above Sam's. It’s so, so much better than Sam could ever have imagined. 

When the unthinkable happens, it happens abruptly and like a storm that turns their lives inside out.

They’re still lying there in their blissfully sleepy post-orgasmic haze, Dean's hands still loosely wrapped around Sam's wrists and his lips against Sam's cheek, when the door opens and Dad walks in.

 

\--

 

Later, Sam's not sure how much he remembers of what actually happened that day.

Most of what registers in his brain—at first—is blind terror. He remembers Dean reacting first, letting go of Sam's hands and trying to disentangle himself from Sam. Remembers Dad’s thunderous “The hell is going on here?” Remembers what it must’ve looked like to Dad to see Dean on top of a bare-chested Sam, his large hands holding Sam's smaller ones above his head, the whole bedroom probably smelling like sex. 

All that registers over the overwhelming sensation of terror is Dad dragging Dean out of the bedroom by the back of his thin t-shirt, the fabric ripping with a too-loud sound, and bolting the door shut, locking Sam inside while he takes Dean outside to—to—Sam doesn’t even know what Dad’s planning to do to Dean, can't even imagine what their father is capable of in his wrath, in this most terrible of situations. 

Ever since Dad dragged Dean out of the door Sam's been screaming and screaming at Dad to listen to him, that it isn’t Dean's fault, that Dean hasn't been hurting him. He’s been hammering on the door as hard as he can, hurting his fists, slamming them against the hardwood over and over and over until he forces himself to stop so he can listen to what’s going on outside.

He can hear Dad’s voice, but he can’t make out the words. He can’t hear a single sound from Dean. There are repeated sounds of something being hit hard, and Sam's mind is almost blanking out at the horror of imagining Dean being hit repeatedly by their father.

When he hears the gunshot, his mind shuts down completely. 

There’s no feeling anything anymore, not even terror. He switches to autopilot, looking wildly around the room to see if there’s something he can use. There’s no weapon in the bedroom except for his knife, and that won’t get him through the door. He grabs the knife and goes into the bathroom, standing on the toilet lid to get to the small window above, pulling out the horizontal glass panes until there’s just enough space for him to hoist himself up and wriggle through.

He lands hard on the ground, rolling over just as Dean's taught him. _Dean. Oh god, Dean._ He swallows back the bile that rises up in his throat and wipes his clammy hands on his sweatpants—Dean's sweats—before turning the corner and heading to the front of the house.

Everything is deathly quiet. Everything except for the trail of red that leads from the front door to the street, an image that screams things inside Sam's head until he’s sure it’s going to burst with agony.

He isn’t aware that he’s screaming Dean’s name until Dad steps out of the front door, Sam's duffel thrown over his shoulder, and slaps Sam hard across the face. “Cut it out, Sam. Shut the hell up. You hear me?”

“Where’s Dean? What’ve you done with him? Where’s Dean?”

“In the car,” Dad says shortly, and for a brief, unreal moment, Sam allows himself to believe that Dean might be okay. 

It doesn’t last. Dad grabs his arm and all but drags him to his truck, parked outside on the street in front of the Impala. It’s very quiet at this hour of the morning, everyone asleep, no one even roused by the sound of the gunshot that’s shattered Sam's whole life in a second.

The trail of blood ends at the Impala’s trunk, and then Sam sees the whole picture in a split second, as though he’s seen it all happen. Dad had shot Dean. He’d shot Dean and then dragged him out and put him in the trunk of the Impala. And he isn’t even staying long enough to clean up the evidence of what he’s done.

“No,” Sam says, beginning to struggle against his father’s hold. “No, please, no, let me go to him. He needs help, he could still be—Dad. Dad, please!”

“That’s not your brother,” his father says calmly, his hand a vise around Sam's arm. “Listen to me, Sam. That isn’t Dean.”

“I—what?”

“Your brother’s gone, son.” Dad’s face is heavy with grief. “Just get in the truck.”

“Dad, no! No! That’s Dean in there! I have to help him. Let me go, please, please just let me—”

The last thing he feels is the pinch of Dad’s fingers on a nerve in his shoulder. Dad had told him and Dean about it. Told them a lifetime ago that there was a particular nerve that could be pinched to render someone immobile, even unconscious.

 

\--

 

The first thing that Sam becomes aware of when he wakes up is the sound of people talking in low voices. 

“...attacking him. I had to, Bobby.” His father’s voice.

Then Bobby’s. “Did you get a look at his eyes?”

“They looked normal. Maybe it was something else. A shifter. Maybe Dean's still out there.”

Sam forces himself to keep his eyes squeezed shut. He’s lying on something hard and lumpy. He tries to move, but something stops him.

The voices fade into silence. He has to open his eyes then, as he starts to struggle. One look around tells him exactly where he is. Bobby’s panic room, restrained to the bed with thick straps.

“Bobby,” he says, his mouth feeling like it’s stuffed full of wool.

“Christ, kid.” Bobby’s leaning over him, worry etched on his face. “Is it you?”

“Of course it’s me! Where’s Dad?” 

“He stepped out for a bit. He thinks you—he thinks you aren’t you. That you might be brainwashed. We did all the tests, so we know you aren’t possessed.”

“I’m not possessed! Or brainwashed or anything. Bobby. He. He shot Dean. He. Dean needs help. Please. Please. You gotta let me go. You gotta let me help him.”

“Sam.” Bobby puts a hand on his shoulder. “Calm down, you’ll hurt yourself. Dean obviously isn’t himself. Your dad said he was attacking you.”

“He wasn’t—” Sam swallows, not sure how to explain it to Bobby. Dad obviously hasn’t told him exactly what he’d seen. “Bobby, Dean wasn’t attacking me. Dad. He didn’t. He misinterpreted the whole thing.”

“What exactly did he see?”

“I. Bobby, please. You have to let me go. I have to help him.”

“No, Sam. Something’s obviously very wrong here, and we can’t let you go until we know exactly what happened to Dean.”

“What happened to Dean was that Dad shot him!” Sam says, his voice breaking on a sob. “He’s wrong, Bobby. He’s wrong! There’s nothing wrong with Dean. He was. He was just... There’s nothing wrong with him, please. You have to believe me.”

A glimmer of doubt appears in Bobby’s eyes, and it’s all that registers for Sam: a sliver of hope. “Please,” he says again, unable to stop the tears from tricking steadily from his eyes, slipping in a crooked line from the corners of his eyes into his hair. He’s hardly even seeing Bobby anymore. _Dean, wounded, bleeding, locked in the trunk of the Impala. Dean, hurt. Dying. Maybe already dead._

“I’ll be right back,” Bobby says, squeezing his shoulder before he gets up. He goes out and closes the door behind him.

“No! Bobby, please! He needs help now!”

There’s no response. Sam doesn’t really need one, because he already knows what he has to do. It takes him a few minutes, but then he’s free of his restraints. Dean had taught him, trained him over and over, tying him up in various positions and teaching him how to get loose. At the time, Sam had been so blindingly turned on at being tied up by Dean that he wasn’t sure how much of Dean’s lessons had actually registered. Luckily, he doesn’t even really need to use any of Dean's tricks because his wrists are slender enough to slip out of their restraints, and the rest is simple. 

 

\--

 

Twenty minutes later he’s running down the road as fast as he can. 

The door to the panic room is well-secured and pretty much impossible to open from the inside, but all he’d had to do was wait behind the door until Bobby came back and then run out of the door, side-stepping Bobby easily, and pull it shut behind him. Dad hadn't been in sight.

There hadn't been time to hotwire one of the cars in Bobby’s yard; they would've been sure to catch hold of him long before he could get one started. So he’s running, running as fast as his bare feet on the hot asphalt will allow him, and he doesn’t know if it’s providence or some higher power that makes a car stop on the road, a young, nice-looking couple inside, the woman leaning out of her open window to ask if Sam's all right, if they can help.

He tells them he’s running away from his abusive dad who hurt his brother and kidnapped him, and it doesn’t even feel like a lie. 

 

\--

 

They give him some money for a bus and drop him at a bus station, and Sam takes their business card and promises to pay them back when he finds his brother. It’s a thirty-minute bus ride from the terminal to the rented house he’s been sharing with Dean for the last five months, the house in which everything he’s ever wanted had come true only to be torn from him in the most agonizing way possible. 

When he reaches the house, the Impala is no longer parked in front. There’s still a dark stain on the ground right next to where the car had been. Dean's blood. Sam falls to his knees on the ground and puts his palm over it. It’s long since gone cold, part of the road now as though it had always been there.

“Sam? Is that you?”

It’s Mrs Henley, their overly helpful neighbor, who’d sometimes given them homemade meals, saying nothing but pursing up her lips at the idea of an irresponsible man who leaves his children alone to fend for themselves. Sam had tutored her small daughter in math for free on occasion, just to return her kindness in some small way.

“Mrs Henley! Mrs Henley, do you know what happened?”

“The police were here. They asked us some questions.” She isn’t looking nearly as kind now as she used to, obviously afraid of whom she’s had for neighbors over the last few months. “About all the blood.”

“And Dean? Have you seen him? Did they take the car? The cops? Did they find him?”

“There was no one there. Your car was gone too. I thought I heard something in the morning. Very early. Was there a break-in?” She’s looking at him uncertainly now, clearly torn between wanting to help him and wanting to keep away. He probably looks like a dangerous lunatic. 

“There were. There were some men. I think, I think my dad owes them money or something. They shot Dean and they took me. I just got away.”

The lies roll easily off his tongue, and like before, don’t really seem like lies at all. Finally sympathetic, Mrs Henley offers to drive him to the town precinct, but he declines and tells her he’s going to check in the house before he goes to the cops.

He goes in and washes his blistered feet in the bathroom before pulling on his socks and shoes and looking around. The sheets on the bed are still rumpled, and Sam can’t bear to look at them.

They hadn't even kissed.

“I can’t kiss you,” Dean had said, his fingers tangled in Sam's hair, and Sam’s heart had split in two at the words. And then Dean had fixed it again the way only Dean can. “Not like this,” he’d clarified, dipping his head to brush his lips against Sam's cheek. “There needs to be. I don’t know. More fanfare.”

“Fanfare?” Sam repeated, unable to keep the smile from his lips.

“Yeah, you know. Like, something to mark the moment. Not every day you get to kiss your little brother.”

“God, shut up. You say the worst things.”

“Just following your lead, darlin’,” Dean said in his best cowboy accent, and Sam punched him in the face with a pillow.

Now that pillow’s lying on the floor, probably been lying there ever since it had fallen during their playful tussle on the bed before things had gotten serious and Sam’s wrists were held in the perfect clamps of Dean's hands, held safe like Dean was meant to hold him like that and Sam was meant to come completely undone under his brother, nothing between them at all, not even lies, not anymore.

Sam chokes back a sob and looks desperately for any sign that Dean had been in the house after Dad had taken him away, but there isn’t any, not even a missing pair of shoes. Dean had been barefoot just like Sam. If he was okay, if he’d managed to get away on his own, surely he’d have come in to grab a pair of shoes, maybe a weapon or two. Although if Dean's got the Impala, then there’s no shortage of weapons in the trunk. Maybe Dean had just been in a hurry to get away.

But no. Dean wouldn't have left without coming into the house, without checking to see if Sam was there. Dean wouldn’t have dreamed of going anywhere and leaving Sam behind.

Which left only the possibility that Dean was not okay. That maybe someone had stolen the car with Dean in it.

Trying not to think of Dean locked up in the trunk while he has a bullet in him (and failing miserably), Sam switches to autopilot again as he gathers their things—Dean's stuff and some of Sam's stuff that Dad hadn't bothered to pick up when he’d taken Sam's bag—and shoves everything he can into Dean's bag. The movies that Dean had got him (a lifetime ago) go into the front pocket. He’s zipping up the bag when he realizes that he hasn’t thought of the most obvious thing to do. Grabbing his phone, right there on the nightstand where he’d left it before getting into bed with Dean—had it only just been hours ago?—he dials Dean's number.

The call goes to voicemail, and Sam shuts it off miserably. If someone’s got Dean and the car, they’ve probably got the phone too. Then he calls again, just in case, and leaves a message. “Dean. I can’t say where I am in case your phone’s not with you. I just. If you’re okay, if you get this, call me. Please. I’m going to look for you, okay? I’m not going to give up on you. Just hold on, Dean. Just hold on, big brother. For me. Please.”

He’s just hanging up for the second time when he notices something on the nightstand on Dean's side of the bed. Something silver. Dean's ring.

Sam's always had a photographic memory, but last night was... different. Unique. He has no memory of it that doesn’t involve Dean's face, Dean's arms around him, Dean's warmth beside him. Not a shred of evidence that can help him, tell him if Dean had taken off the ring last night or if he’d left it there later. 

Sam sits down at the edge of the bed, shaking, the ring clutched in his hand. Dean almost never takes off the ring. If it was later. If Dean had left the ring later. It means that Dean is okay, that he’d come into the house and left a sign that probably only Sam would notice. Filled with hope for the first time since Dad stepped into this room in the morning, Sam puts the ring on. It’s too big for his ring finger, but it fits over his thumb. 

 

\--

 

He doesn’t go to the cops.

He will if it’s his last resort, but if what Mrs Henley said is true—and she has no reason to lie—then Dean was long gone before the cops arrived at the scene. So now Sam's left with the question: what would Dean do? What would he do if he were hurt and alone and without Sam?

The answer is fairly obvious: he’d look for Sam. And if he’s gone looking for Sam, then he’s probably gone to Bobby’s.

Sam finds a crowded coffee shop and slides into a booth in a corner before calling Bobby’s number.

“Bobby?”

“Sam? Where the hell’re you at, kid?”

“Have you heard from Dean?”

Silence at the other end of the line for a moment. Then Bobby starts, “Look, kid...”

“Yes or no, Bobby? Have you heard from him?”

A beat. “No.”

“You're lying.”

“Don't you dare take that tone with me, boy.”

“You’re no better than Dad,” Sam says, and hangs up.

He drops his head in his hands, pushing his fingers back through his hair. 

The phone rings again and Sam's heart leaps, but then falls almost immediately when he sees who’s calling.

“I don’t want to talk to you, Bobby.”

“Look, kid, your dad doesn’t know I’m calling. Dean called earlier. Same as you. Wanted to know if I knew where you were. I think he might be heading here. He didn’t seem to believe me either when I said I didn’t know where you were.”

“You haven’t exactly endeared yourself to either of us today. I don’t know if I can believe you, Bobby. You might just be lying to get me back there.”

“Suit yourself. Just thought you oughta know.”

The line goes dead.

 

\--

 

Sam has two choices now: either trust Bobby’s word and return to Sioux Falls, or keep looking for Dean on his own.

There’s one very obvious reason that points to Bobby’s tale as absolute lies: Dean would not have called him without trying to call Sam first, and Sam's phone has been on all along. There are no missed calls from any number.

“Damn it, Bobby.”

The phone rings again.

“What now?” Sam says, pretty much at the end of his endurance.

“Sammy.”

“Dean!”

“Hey, kid. You had us all scared. Where are you? Back in that funky town while I’m here at Bobby’s?”

“Dean,” Sam whispers. His heart is pounding a joyful beat at hearing Dean's voice again, but Dean's used their secret code, the one even Dad doesn’t know because they just made it up recently. Dean’s in trouble and Sam needs to play along: only, he has no idea how. He doesn’t dare say anything aloud because he doesn’t know if whoever’s got Dean is listening in. “Dean, are you okay? I thought you... oh god, Dean. I was so scared.”

“I know, Sammy. It’s all right. Everything’s going to be all right. I promise. Just get here soon, okay?”

“Okay,” Sam says, clutching the phone so hard that his fingers hurt. “Okay, Dean. I’m coming.”

“Uh, hang on a bit. Dad wants a word.”

Dad. Sam wants to reach through the phone and break his face.

“Sam. You listen to what your brother says and get down here right away.”

“Yes, sir,” Sam says, and hangs up the phone.

 

\--

 

Sam needs a plan.

He needs a plan, and he needs to come up with it on the bus back to Sioux Falls, because there’s no way he’s staying away from Dean for any longer than he has to.

Clearly, Dad still believes that Dean's possessed or something, or Dean wouldn't be a captive right now. Fuck, they’d come up with that code to use only when one of them had a gun to his head. It had been a half-playful thing, and Sam hadn't seriously believed that they’d ever need to use it. The thought of Dean now, hurt and defenseless with Dad and Bobby holding him prisoner, makes Sam want to put his fist through the dirty, rain-stained glass of the window he’s sitting next to on the bus.

He gets off one stop before Sioux Falls, just in case one of the men is waiting for him there, and hikes the rest of the way into town. He knows Dad and Bobby aren’t a threat—not to him. But if Dad has Bobby believing that Dean's possessed, they’ll just as easily kill Dean as let him live. Sam doesn’t even know how badly Dean is hurt; all he has to go on is the blood. All that blood, Dean's blood, spilled outside the house and on the street. 

The thing with Bobby’s place is that it’s pretty much a fortress. It doesn’t look like much from the outside, but Sam knows from experience that it’s pretty secure. It’s not exactly like he can sneak in the back. Every entry point that Sam can think of, Bobby can think of too.

In the end, Sam has no choice but to walk in the front door and hope for the best.

 

\--

 

When he does walk in the front, the first thing he sees is the Impala, glittering in the late afternoon sun.

Dean. He’d driven all the way here in the state that he was in, just so he could get to Sam.

Sam pauses at the car. He doesn’t have a plan, and most likely Dean didn’t either. But what if he had? Obviously it hadn't worked since Dad had got him, but if there was a chance that Dean had planned something... Sam takes a quick look inside the Impala, knowing that he probably has just a minute or so, maybe just seconds, to look around before he’s spotted. He quickly looks around in the front seat and the glove compartment. Nothing new there, just the usual jumble of cassette tapes and movie ticket stubs and gas station bills that characterize his and Dean's life. 

There’s nothing on the backseat, but when he pushes his hand under it, he feels something in the footwell in front of the backseat, almost wedged under the driver’s seat.

It’s a paper bag, and inside it are two syringes filled with a clear liquid.

Sam shoves them into his jacket pocket—Dean's jacket pocket, really, since he’s wearing the jacket that Dean had left back at the house—and walks up to the house.

 

\--

 

Bobby greets him with a pat on the back, looking a bit embarrassed, and Dad doesn’t give him more than a cursory nod. 

Sam doesn’t care, because all his attention is focused on Dean.

Dean, who’s tied to a chair in the middle of Bobby’s living room, a thick line of salt surrounding him. He isn’t conscious, and it appears that the ropes binding him to the chair are the only thing keeping him in it. His head is slumped forward, his face bruised, a huge dark bloodstain on the left leg of his jeans, which are torn through with what is clearly a bullet hole. 

Sam's never felt so much rage, horror and love in his entire life.

Ignoring Dad and Bobby, he steps into the circle of salt and drops to his knees next to Dean. “Dean. Hey. It’s me.” He ignores how his voice is cracking, taking Dean's face in his hands and lifting his head as gently as possible. 

Dean's eyes open just a crack. Sam understands immediately. Dean doesn’t want the others to know that he’s awake and alert. He leans in to hug Dean, wrapping his arms around Dean's waist and pressing their faces as close as possible, giving him the chance to speak without Dad and Bobby hearing him. 

Behind Dean's back, unseen by the two older men, Sam slips the smallest knife he could carry into Dean's bound hands, their fingers pressed against each other’s for the briefest moment.

“In the car. Backseat,” Dean whispers into Sam's hair.

“Got it,” Sam whispers back, turning his head so his lips are right against Dean's ear. 

“That’s my boy,” Dean murmurs.

The absolute devotion Sam feels in that moment is something he’ll never be able to find the words for, but he has three words that come pretty close, and he says them right against Dean's ear, as softly as possible.

Sam hates to let go of Dean, but any more whispering and Dad and Bobby are going to get suspicious. He pulls back from Dean, wiping furiously at his eyes.

“Whatever he’s saying, Sam, it’s lies,” Bobby says from behind him. “That’s not Dean. If it is, he’s not the one in control right now.”

“So you used him?” Sam rounds on them. “You forced him to make that call to lure me here?”

“Lure you here?” Dad’s face is hard. “You make it sound like it’s a trap.”

Sam doesn’t bother to acknowledge those words. “What do you plan to do with him?”

“Find out how to get Dean back, of course,” Bobby says. He sounds surprised, as though it should be the most obvious thing.

But Sam's watching his father, whose face doesn’t show any sign at all of what he might be thinking.

“Dad?” Sam asks. “Is that what you're doing here?”

“What else would we be doing?” Dad’s tone is expressionless. 

Sam walks away from Dean and back in the direction of the door, both men turning around to keep their gazes on him, exactly as he’d hoped. Their backs are to Dean now. 

Sam shrugs. _Keep them talking until Dean can get free._ “I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me why you locked me up in the panic room?”

“That should be obvious to you—or haven’t you learned anything at all by now? You were obviously taken in by this thing masquerading as your brother. We couldn't take the chance that you’d try to help him.”

“What have you done to him?”

“Just the usual tests, Sam,” Bobby says, stepping forward with his hands raised in a defensive gesture. “Nothing worse than that, I swear.”

“The usual tests? Cutting him with silver and forcing him to swallow holy water? Have you seen the state he’s in? He’s been shot, for fuck’s sake.”

“He isn’t a ‘he,’ Sam,” his father says. “If there’s some damage to Dean's meat suit, then—”

“Don't you dare fucking call him that! He’s your son!”

“We don’t even know if this body is even Dean's,” Bobby says, looking nervously between the two of them. “Could be some sorta shifter we’ve never seen before.”

Sam’s had enough. He glances at Dean as quickly as he can, and Dean nods, bringing his hands around to his front. Just as Bobby turns around and sees him.

“John. Watch out!” Bobby yells.

Sam doesn’t know what the exact plan is, but he’s worked together with Dean all his life and he knows what to do, how Dean's mind works. Between Sam and Dean, Sam's the stronger one right now; between Dad and Bobby, Dad’s the stronger. 

Taking the syringes from his pocket, he tosses one to Dean before lunging for his father. Dad clearly wasn’t expecting a physical attack from Sam, and the moment it takes for him to register what's happening is long enough for Sam to shove the needle into his father’s leg and press the plunger. 

Dean’s legs are still bound to the chair but he throws himself at Bobby and injects the substance in the syringe into his arm. He keeps his arms tight around Bobby as the man struggles, but he’s pinned down securely by both Dean and the chair, and both he and Dad slump against their captors within seconds.

“Anesthetic,” Dean explains, starting to untie his legs. He looks up briefly. “Thanks for trusting me on this.”

Sam just stands there for a moment, completely ignoring the unconscious bodies on the floor, his eyes only on Dean. 

“A little help?” Dean says after a moment, gesturing to his wounded leg. 

“Yeah, of course.” 

Between them they manage to get the chair upright again, and Sam sees Dean's problem immediately: the rope is biting down into Dean's gunshot wound and is knotted tight behind the leg of the chair. “I’ve got it,” he says, taking the knife from Dean and cutting through the knots.

Dean pulls his leg free without so much as a grimace, his face hard. “I gotta go, Sam. If I stay here, they’ll probably kill me.”

“I know. Where are we headed?”

Dean limps over to Bobby’s desk and grabs a bottle of whiskey, takes a long swig. “Not we, Sam. Just me.”

“What?”

“I have to disappear for a while, Sam. If he finds me, he’ll kill me. Or have me arrested for statutory rape. Either way, he wins.” He glances down at the two men. “That dose wasn’t very strong. They’ll be up in a few minutes.” He starts for the door. “I gotta go, Sam,” he says over his shoulder. “I’ll be in touch, okay?”

Sam stares after him for a second, stunned into silence. It’s only when he hears the sound of the car’s door opening that he’s jolted into movement.

“So—that’s it?” he says, incredulous, watching Dean grab an old bandana from the glove compartment and bind it around his wound. “You're just—leaving?”

Dean doesn’t look up. “You want me to stay here and get arrested? Or worse?” He bites his lip as he pulls the makeshift bandage tight around his leg. 

“Then why’d you come here in the first place? Huh? You knew they’d grab you.”

“I had to see you. Had to see you were okay,” Dean says, sounding surprised that Sam has to ask.

“And now you want to just leave me here. With the men who tried to kill you.”

Dean's face softens just a little. “Come on, Sammy. It’s not like that. He’s your father. You're a minor. There’s no way I can take you with me. You’ve still got to finish school.”

“You can take over guardianship of me until I’m eighteen. Prove in a court that he’s not a fit parent.”

Dean stares at him. “Courts aren’t a part of our world, Sam. And even if they were—do you have any idea how much effort that would take?”

“And you're clearly not willing to put that effort into making sure we can stay together.” Sam hadn't thought anything could hurt worse than the pain of thinking Dean might be dead, but this comes pretty close.

“Sam. It’s not like that,” Dean says again. 

“I get it,” Sam says with a brief nod, although he doesn’t get it at all, not even a little, and it feels as though someone is scouring out his insides with a scoop. He gestures to Dean's leg. “Just. Get that taken care of ASAP, okay?” 

“Sammy,” Dean says. “Come on. Come here.” He holds out his hand, still sitting in the driver’s seat with his legs out on the ground.

It takes all of Sam's remaining strength to refuse Dean, but he manages to shake his head. “You should go, Dean.”

Dean just looks at him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he says, “Get your stuff. I think it’s still in the truck.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.” Dean slides over into the shotgun seat with a groan. “My leg’s too busted to drive.”

“Where are we going?” Sam asks as he pulls the Impala on to the highway. 

“Anywhere. Somewhere out of sight. Find a motel. We’ll figure this out, okay? I just. I need to pass out for a bit.”

 

\--

 

Hours after they’d gotten each other off in bed, they’re back to not talking much.

Dean looks too messed up for Sam to work up the inclination to argue with him, so he doesn’t. He takes a turnoff—not the first one they come across, because that would be too obvious—and finds a motel with a parking lot that’s far enough off the highway that the Impala won’t be spotted from the road.

In the bathroom, Dean sits at the edge of the tub with his leg inside it and cuts away his ruined jeans, wincing as he peels off the bloody material sticking to his skin. He seems reluctant to let Sam touch him, but Sam waits patiently until Dean looks up at him. The bullet is still in his leg. Sam helps him prop his foot on the edge of the tub and uses a pair of tweezers to get the bullet out, trying to be as careful as possible. He knows it has to hurt like hell. Dean's face is pale with pain, his eyes shut tight, his hand squeezing Sam's shoulder.

“If it looks bad tomorrow,” Sam starts when he finishes dressing and bandaging the wound.

“I know,” Dean says shortly, getting to his feet. 

Sam lets him go. He takes a shower, letting Dean's blood wash off his fingers and into the drain in a swirl of pink water. Funnily enough he isn’t feeling terribly anxious at the moment, maybe because even though Dean's hurt, he’s been hurt worse before and Sam at least knows that he’s safe now, here with Sam.

The anxiety returns in a sudden wave when he steps out of the bathroom and sees the empty room. He goes out quickly and exhales with relief when he sees Dean sitting on the steps outside their room, beer in hand, their green cooler at his feet. He’s just starting to wonder if maybe Dean just wants to be left alone when Dean gets another beer out of the box and hands it to him after twisting the top off.

Dean scoots over a bit to make space and Sam sits down next to him, careful not to let their shoulders touch, aching to be closer. He fiddles with the ring on his thumb, reluctant to take it off. 

Dean glances at his hand. “So you found it.” He says the words into the night air, and they curl away like smoke.

“Dean, why didn’t you call me? Before heading to Bobby’s?”

“Your phone was at the house when I left. I. I didn’t think you’d be back there so soon.”

“Oh.” Sam takes a swig of his beer. “Did you call them before you went?”

“No. ’Course not.”

“So Bobby lied to me. He told me you’d called. That you were headed there.”

“I was already there. When you didn’t take the bait they made me talk to you.”

“Dean, we should... maybe we can talk to them. Convince them you’re not possessed or a shifter or anything like that.”

“You think Dad doesn’t already know?”

“What? But. He...”

“Beat me up real bad and shot me in the leg, yeah. He knew it was me, Sam.”

Sam stares at him, horrified.

“He knew the whole time. Kept telling me what a monster I was for. You know. Told me he’d given me one job, and I’d screwed that up. That I’m a no-good failure who couldn't even keep my kid brother safe. Told me trusting me with you was the worst mistake he’s ever made. Said he’d kill me if I ever tried to come near you again.”

“He’s wrong. Dean, you know he’s—”

“I’d have done the same, Sam. If I were him. If I saw what he saw. Someone... someone holding you down like that. I’d have killed them, Sammy. I. I deserve everything he said. Everything he did.”

“You’re not just someone, Dean.”

Dean shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. I was wrong, Sam. And he was right. You. You shouldn't even be here.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

“You have to, Sam.” Dean's voice is gentle, as though he's trying to reduce the sting of his words. “If you. If we go on the run, Dad won’t stop until he finds us and takes you back.”

“Maybe he’ll just leave us alone. Maybe. Maybe he’ll understand that I don’t want to go back without you.”

“No, Sam. He won’t. He’s your father, and he thinks I... he thinks you're being hurt, and. He won’t understand. I wouldn't if I were him.”

Sam pushes his hands back through his hair. “You keep saying that. It’s not true. You know it’s not.”

“He can’t accept it, Sam. He’s our father.”

“So what you're saying is that if I don’t go back, I’m. I’m putting you in danger. Because he’ll come for me and he’ll hurt you if he finds you.”

“I’m not saying that, Sammy. But you can’t go on the run with me. You. You need to finish school.”

“I don’t care about that.”

“I do. And Sam, even if we... even if we’re together. We can’t. What happened this morning. It can’t happen again.”

Sam closes his eyes. He’s been expecting this, but now that it’s real, it’s actually happening, he knows he's not in the least bit equipped to deal with it.

“Dean, don’t.”

“Sam, I—”

“Just don’t. Don’t say anything more.”

“Sammy.”

Sam gets to his feet. He puts his hand briefly on the top of Dean's head, caressing his soft hair. “I don’t regret it. At least I got to be with you for a few hours. I don’t regret it and I’ll never take it back. What I said. How I feel.”

He goes back inside and sits at the edge of his bed to finish his beer, feeling strangely devoid of emotion. After he’s done, he lies down and closes his eyes, and doesn’t let himself fall asleep until he hears Dean come in quietly and shut the door behind him with a tiny click. 

 

\--

 

When Sam wakes up the next morning, Dean's already awake and sitting at the small table beside the window. 

“Hey,” Sam says, still groggy, pushing his hands back through his mussed hair. “How's the leg?” 

Dean glances over. “I'll live.”

“Not what I asked, but okay.”

“It’s fine.” Sam gives him a look. “Okay, it’s not a hundred per cent, but it will be. So quit worrying.”

Sam swings his legs out of bed. “You showered already?” he asks, noticing Dean's damp hair. “You should've woken me.”

Dean shrugs. “You needed the sleep.” He doesn’t look at Sam.

“I'll get ready and we’ll go get breakfast, okay?”

Dean looks up, gives Sam a strained smile. “Sure, Sammy.”

 

\--

 

Sam insists on checking Dean's wound before they go out, and Dean lets him do it. It doesn’t look bad at all, and Sam puts on a fresh bandage. “All done,” he says, looking up at Dean.

“Always take such good care of me,” Dean murmurs, running a hand over Sam's hair.

Sam doesn’t want to swat his hand away but he does, determined to have his brother back if nothing else. “You took too many pain meds again.”

Dean lets out a small chuckle. “I'm not high, Sam.” He reaches out to tangle his fingers in Sam's hair, and Sam doesn’t stop him this time. “You liked it, didn’t you? When I called you a good boy. When I told you how good you were for me.”

“Dean. Don’t.”

“It’s just a simple question, Sammy. Did you like it?”

“You're a jerk, you know that?”

Dean looks startled. “I didn’t—”

“First you tell me we can’t—that there can’t be anything between us, and then you say these things. It’s not fair, Dean.”

Dean looks away. “I—you're right. I’m sorry, Sam. I was just... I just wanted to know.”

He starts moving his hand away from Sam's hair, but Sam reaches up to hold it in place. “Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes. I liked it. I still do.”

Dean lets out a soft sigh, his fingers still in Sam's hair, his thumb tracing the outline of Sam's earlobe. “What am I gonna do with you, Sammy?”

“There are so many ways I could answer that question that you don’t wanna hear.”

Dean swallows hard. “Yeah?”

“You like it, don’t you?” Sam knows he’s pushing it, but Dean isn’t actually discouraging him right now. He braces himself with a hand on Dean’s good leg and leans up, his mouth to Dean's ear. “You like it. Me on my knees in front of you.”

Dean's hand tightens in his hair. “Jesus, Sam. The mouth on you.”

Sam pulls back and gives him a cheeky grin. “Sure you don’t wanna know what I can do with my mouth?”

Dean keeps his hand tight in Sam's hair, tugging at it lightly. “You keep talking like that, I’mma have to punish you.”

“Fuck, Dean.” Sam leans forward, pressing his forehead to Dean's shoulder.

“God, Sammy. What're we doing?” Dean threads both his hands through Sam's hair, and then slips his arms around Sam and tugs him up until he's sitting on Dean's good leg. “You really want this,” Dean says, watching Sam's face.

“I. I don’t want it if you don’t, Dean. I don’t want you to think that you have to do, uh. Something. For my sake. ’Cause that would be worse than not having it at all.”

“It’s not like that, Sam.” Dean touches Sam’s cheek. “I promise. It’s just. You’re sixteen. You can’t even legally consent to... to anything. And even if you could, it still wouldn't be legal. It can’t ever be.”

“Aren't you the one who said courts aren’t a part of our world?”

“Trust you to remember every damn thing I say.”

Sam smiles down at Dean from his perch on Dean's knee. “So. In the last twenty-four hours, you’ve been beaten up, shot, locked in the Impala’s trunk, tied to a chair, and tortured. That enough fanfare for you?”

“Wasn't exactly tortured,” Dean says. He runs his thumb over Sam’s lips. “But yeah. I see your point.”

“Then stop talking.” Sam bends his head and Dean lifts his face like they've planned this all along. It’s maybe not really a kiss at first, because they stay frozen with their lips pressed against each other’s. Then Dean opens his mouth against Sam's and Sam is instantly lost, desperately seeking more and so focused on his task that he almost falls off Dean's lap. But Dean hooks an arm around his waist, never breaking the kiss, and keeps him in place.

“Can we do this all the time?” Sam whispers against Dean's mouth when they come up for air, still half-afraid that Dean's going to push him away and say this is a mistake.

“Whatever you want, Sammy,” Dean says, looking as dazed as Sam feels, and Sam can’t keep the smile off his face for hours.

 

\--

 

Sam gnaws on the thin skin just above his right thumb, foot tapping against the linoleum floor of the diner as he watches Dean on the payphone in the back.

Dean finally hangs up and threads his way through the crowded tables to Sam.

“How’d it go?” Sam reaches across the table to brush his fingers against Dean's.

“I think he bought it.”

“I hate using Pastor Jim like this.”

“I know, kid. I know. Me too.” Dean squeezes Sam's hand, and Sam reminds himself that whatever they’re doing is worth the lies and the deception. “But he’s okay with it, remember?”

Sam nods, squeezing back before going to make his own call. They’ve been using payphones since they’ve been on the run, unwilling to switch their phones on in case Dad manages to use their signals to track them down.

“Dad?”

“Sam, where the hell are you? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Dad. I... listen. Dean took off. He...” He looks at Dean, standing right there next to him, and Dean takes his free hand and squeezes it again. “He left, Dad. Said you'd kill him if you saw him again.”

“Sam, there are things you don’t—”

“Dad, listen to me. I... I need some time, okay? This is all pretty hard to process. I’m going to be staying with Pastor Jim for a while. I talked it over with him. You can come see me there if you like, but I’m not going back with you. Not right now.”

There’s a long pause, and then Dad says: “I’m your father, Sam. Don’t you think you'd be safest with me?”

“Not right now, no. Not after what you did to my brother.” Sam untangles his fingers from Dean's and cups his hand around the back of Dean's neck, bringing their foreheads together.

“Sammy, that wasn’t Dean. How many times do I have to—”

“Say I believe you, Dad. I still want some time on my own, okay? I’ll be safe at Pastor Jim’s. I... I gotta go. I’ll call you when I get there. Don’t worry about me.”

Sam hangs up and buries his face in Dean's neck.

“Wish you didn’t have to do this,” Dean murmurs into his hair, pulling him close. “It’s not gonna be easy, Sammy. Are you sure you want to...”

“Yes.” Sam lifts his head, meeting Dean’s eyes. “Yes, Dean. I’m not leaving you.”

 

\--

 

Sam spends the rest of the morning curled up with Dean in bed. They don’t talk much. Dean knows that Sam finds it hard to lie, especially to their father, and he doesn’t insist that they discuss it further, doesn’t try to talk Sam out of following the plan.

Things will be tough. They won’t be able to use the Impala for a while; it’s too easily recognizable. Sam will have to enroll himself in a school in Pastor Jim’s town and, as agreed with Jim, pretend to live with him for a while, at least until Dad comes and checks up on him once, as he's sure to do. They’ll have to tell their story to Pastor Jim together, convince him that Dad and Dean had a falling out over something and that Dad shouldn't know for now that Dean's living in the same town. 

There are about a hundred things that could go wrong, but Sam's drained after his call to his father and doesn’t want to think about any of it. They have to leave in a while, but for now he feels warm and safe, he’s with Dean, and he doesn’t want to think about anything else except how good Dean's arms feel around him.

 

\--

 

Epilogue

 

“You, uh. You wanna watch _The Hobbit_?” Dean asks, fidgeting with the remote. He’s a little nervous, and Sam thinks it’s adorable.

It’s Sam's first night staying over at Dean's place. They’ve spent a lot of time here in this house over the last couple of months, but Dean's always insisted on taking Sam back to his room at Pastor Jim’s for the night. 

Dad visited about four weeks after Sam had started living with Pastor Jim. It’s not a memory Sam wants to visit often. Dean had explained to him, over and over and with infinite patience, that he doesn’t blame their father for being furious with him, that he would have done the same. Finally, it was Dean arguing that it was in their best interests for Sam to at least pretend to have forgiven Dad that made Sam agree to the meeting.

Pastor Jim had gone along with the plan beautifully, never once mentioning to Dad that he’d seen Dean on several occasions and that Dean, in fact, lived not two blocks away from the church compound.

Sam nods in answer to Dean's question. “Not without popcorn, though.”

Dean lets out a laugh, reaching out to muss Sam’s hair. “I’ll get it. You stay put.”

Sam grins. “Wow. I should stay over more often.”

“You can stay as often as you like,” Dean says, indulgent, and leans over to ruffle Sam's hair before heading to the kitchen. Sam smiles to himself as he hears his brother busying himself with the popcorn. They both know he isn’t going anywhere, even if Dean hasn’t officially agreed to let Sam stay for good. He’s still paranoid that Dad will drop in to Pastor Jim’s unannounced and find Sam gone.

Later, when the end credits have long since finished rolling and the screen has gone dark, Sam rolls his head around on the couch to look at Dean. “Do you think we’ll make it?” he asks. He isn’t talking about whether they’ll live or die, and he knows Dean knows it.

“I don’t... honestly, Sammy, I don’t know if I want us to make it.”

“What? Dean, you—”

“You deserve better, Sammy. Way better than your loser of a big brother,” Dean says, smiling ruefully. 

“You,” Sam says, lifting his hand to touch Dean lightly on the lips, “are the last thing from a loser that anyone can be.”

“You know what I mean. I’m a fucking dropout, Sam, and you. You should be, I don’t know. A professor at one of those awesome schools. Harvard or Stanford or something. You know?”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, but you don’t get to talk about yourself like that. Ever. You hear me?”

“Sammy. Be realistic. There’s no future in. In this.” He waves his hand between them.

“Why not?”

“Come on. You know why.”

“No, actually, I don’t. So why don’t you spell it out for me?”

“Sam.” Dean sounds so exhausted that Sam's almost decided to drop it for the moment when a thought strikes him.

“Because it’s wrong? Because you. You think it’s sick. Disgusting. And you just don’t know how to tell me that. Is that it, Dean?”

“Sam, no.” Dean reaches out to touch his sleeve, but Sam pulls away.

“You told me once, Dean. You said I could say anything to you. Well, guess what. It works both ways. You can tell me anything. Even if it’s something you think I can’t bear to hear.”

Dean puts both his hands on Sam's face, one cupping his cheek and the other at his temple, smoothing back his hair. “Sammy. Listen to me very carefully, okay? I don’t think that. I don’t. I can’t think that, because. Because of you. Because you started this thing, and there’s nothing about you that’s wrong or sick or disgusting.”

“What about what Dad said to you? You seemed to think you deserved all that.”

“Forget what Dad said. I don’t care what Dad said or did. He’s wrong, okay? He’s just wrong about us. There isn’t a bad bone in your body, Sam. If you want something, it can’t be bad. It can’t be. I trust you on that, Sam. I trust you. If I... if it were just me, I wouldn't trust it. I can’t trust myself to be a good person, Sammy. I’m. I’m just too fucked up for that. But you. You’re different.”

“So let me get this straight.” Sam keeps his tone as gentle as possible, finally understanding how much it’s costing Dean to have this conversation. “I can’t have what I want, what I want the most, because I’m too good for it? I’m too good for you? That’s kinda ironic, don’t you think?”

“You don’t know what you—”

“If you dare fucking finish that sentence, Dean, so help me god.”

“You know what I mean, Sam. You’re sixteen. You have—”

“My whole life ahead of me. I know. And I know what I want, Dean.”

Dean shakes his head. “I know you think you do, Sammy. But. But someday you're gonna find something better and I...”

“And you think I’ll leave you when I do,” Sam says, understanding finally dawning. “You’re scared I’ll hurt you.”

Dean winces. “Now that really does make me sound like a loser.”

“You aren’t a loser, Dean. And I know you don’t really believe that either, but I’ll keep telling you until you believe it. You're _my_ big brother, and that makes you awesome by default.” 

Dean gives him a ghost of a grin. “Can’t really argue when you put it that way.”

“Good,” Sam says. He fiddles with the ring on his finger, which he still hasn’t returned to Dean. “So does that mean I can keep wearing this?”

“Looks good on you,” Dean says. He puts a hand on his chest, over his amulet. “Or you could wear it like this.” He smiles. “Frodo.”

“Aragorn,” Sam says immediately, and leans in to kiss him.

 

\--

 

Sam loves staying at Dean's place—their place, as Dean insists on reminding him. 

The house has two actual bedrooms, because Dean insisted that Sam needed a room of his own. Sam uses it as a study; it’s actually good sometimes to have a space of his own where he can work, especially since he’s going to be working toward college applications soon; he grudgingly admits to Dean that it was a good idea to give him a room of his own, and Dean looks smug for the rest of the evening. It’s a measure of just how much Sam loves him that he doesn’t even mind. He’s even got a computer of his own now, and sometimes he emails Audrey. 

Sometimes they have low-key fights, and it almost becomes fun to rile Dean up until Sam sees actual hurt on Dean's face when they fight, and knows that Dean's insecurities are getting the better of him.

He makes it up to Dean by going to his knees and shutting Dean up the only way he can, enjoying the desperate way in which Dean tries to stay controlled, looking up and seeing the promise of revenge in Dean's darkened eyes.

On the first day of Sam's summer vacation, they test out Dean's new Harley. The motorbike had been junked at the mechanic’s where Dean now has a part-time job (part-time because he’s also got another job as a basketball coach at Sam's new school, and Sam couldn't be prouder of his brother if he tried), and his boss had told him that if he could fix it, he could have it. Dean, of course, had risen magnificently to the occasion; the bike now looks almost brand-new, almost as well cared-for as their beloved car, now hidden in the garage and taken out only in the dark on occasions when they both need to drive out for a while. 

He gets on the back of the big heavy motorcycle behind Dean and they ride out to the hills just outside of town, the wind rushing by Sam's ears and getting into the helmet that Dean made him wear, a light rain drenching them and cooling the hot summer wind into something wilder and more soothing. Just riding, just the two of them, until they reach the hills and Dean parks in front of a brilliant sunset, all oranges and reds and picture perfect, and because it fits the setting, Sam tugs off his helmet and climbs to the front of the bike, sets his ass down on the fuel tank and kisses Dean until his brother’s making the most delicious little sounds of want. 

“If this is a movie,” Dean says into his mouth, “you’re definitely the girl.”

“Take me back home and I’ll show you just how much of a girl I am,” Sam says, and is inordinately pleased when Dean actually shudders at his words.

They ride back when the stars begin to come out, prolonging their mutual need for gratification by stopping at a cheap bar along the way. It has a few tables outdoors with candles stuck in old cheese tins filled with sand, and Sam swears he’s never seen better lighting in his life. 

Dean just watches him from across the table, affectionate, indulgent, always protective. 

“I could get used to this,” he says, glancing across to the parking lot at the Harley. “A car frames the world, but on a bike you’re a part of the frame.” He looks back to Sam. “That’s from _Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance._ ”

“Not fair that you've read a book I haven’t.”

Dean laughs. “I’ll buy you a copy, kiddo.”

“So are you saying you wanna trade in the car for the bike?”

“Oh, hell no. Just sayin’ it’s fun once in a while to, you know.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, smiling across the table at him.

Dean downs the rest of his beer and pushes his chair back. “You ready to go?”

“Yup.” 

They leave the bar just when the night is getting started for most of the other patrons, weaving through the gathering crowd and making their way back to the motorbike. Their fingertips brush when Dean hands Sam his helmet, sending tiny sparks zinging across Sam's skin everywhere that Dean is touching him.

And then it’s just him and Dean and the night and the road, just the way it’s meant to be, as they ride back to the house and to the Impala and just each other. Sam turns his face up to the sky and lets the rain fall on his skin, tightening his arms around Dean's waist.

 

End.


End file.
